
Class _Z£^iiLLl_ 

Book .UasJl±. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



THE ICE LENS 



BOOKS 

hy 
Geobge Fbedebick Gundblpingbr, Ph.D. 



The let Lens 

A Four-act Play 

on Academic Immoralities 

(New Edition) 

Price $1.25 postpaid 



Ten Years at Yale 

A Series of Papers 

on Certain Defects in the 

University World of To-day 

Price $1.10 postpaid. 



The New Fraternity 

A Novel of University Life 

Price $1.50 postpaid 



Published by 

THE NEW FRATERNITY 

Literature & Music 

Sewickley, Pennsylvania 



{New Edition) 

THE ICE LENS 

A FOUR-ACT PLAY 

on 

ACADEMIC IMMORALITIES 



hy 
GEORGE FREDERICK GUNDELFINGER, Ph.D. 

Author of "Ten Years at Yale" 



Nl 



THE NEW FRATERNITY 

Literature & Music 
Sewickley, Pennsylvania 



_2V_ 



THE PLAT PUBLISHED IN THIS VOLUME 
IS COPYRIGHTED AS A DRAMATIC COM- 
POSITION. STAGE AND PLATFORM RIGHTS 
RESERVED. 



Copyright igzi by 

George F. Gundelfinger 

(in manuscript) 



Copyr^ighU igi3 by 
George P.' Gundelfinger 



Published February, igij 



Copyright igig by 
George P. Gundelfinger 



Republished January, igig 

MAR -3 1919 

©CLD 5140B 






"HISTORICAL" NOTES 

It seems to be a general convention with theatrical managers to 
decline hearing the music of a song-comedy unless the libretto has 
met with the approval of their readers, although this approval (as 
one may easily discern by recalling the "plot" of any successful 
musical comedy) does not indicate that the libretto itself has any 
intrinsic value. Nevertheless, no matter how worthy the musical 
score, it will be debarred from the public ear if the story to which 
it has been set does not possess that peculiarly essential charac- 
teristic : senselessness. I believe this has been and will be discovered 
by every composer in his prime ; I know so in my case, for it was the 
very reason why The Ice Lens came into existence. After trying 
in vain to get an audience for my songs and dances, I undertook 
to write, not a successful and senseless libretto, but a play which I 
hoped would succeed, entirely irrespective of my musical genius. 

This, I should really say, was only the direct cause of the birth 
of the play contained in this little volume ; for the theme of The 
Ice Lens was not created simultaneously with the impulse to develop 
it. The raw material (raw in more senses than one) from which 
it has been constructed was being stowed away in my mind, although 
more or less unconsciously, both during and before my efforts on 
the song-comedy. But when the idea of writing a play occurred to 
me, this dormant mentality (furnished by several years' residence 
in a college community as undegraduate, graduate student, instructor 
and proctor respectively) awoke with amazing alacrity. Hundreds 
of "little things" I had earlier seen, heard and felt involuntarily, 
without being uncommonly impressed or inspired at the time, were 
recalled with far more vividness. They were woven together into 
a play in a very short time— not so very, very short if one takes 
into account the nights also, which were, in general, sleepless. 

The manuscript was sent (all too soon) to certain play-producers. 
Needless to say, it invariably came back marked "unavailable" as 
'most premature manuscripts do. But I had at least discovered that 
what I had hurriedly patched together was not senselessness, even 
though it had been patched together in a somewhat senseless manner. 
One very well-known producing-house wrote: "The play exem- 



6 THE ICE LENS 

plifies high ideals of conduct. The author's point of view is a fine 
one, and it is to be hoped that he will continue to work in the same 
directions, but unfortunately his medium does not seem to be a 
dramatic one. The play does not show the instinct for plot and 
situation which marks a born playwright, and the general effect is 
amateurish." 

Another wrote more explicity: "Almost throughout you have 
sacrificed drama for preachment. Your leading characters are too 
'prunes and prisms' to be wholly sympathetic, no matter how near 
the truth they may be. I tell you this frankly — humanize them. 
Your theme is good and laudable." 

These were the first two criticisms I received, and they had come 
from persons whom I did not know from Adam. I had not shown 
my copy to a single acquaintance before submitting it. It was not 
that I altogether spurned help from the outside, but rather that I 
wanted to work in secrecy. The nature of the play demanded this. 
When you will have become a little more familiar with it, you will 
understand why I did not seek admonition from some English pro- 
fessor on the Yale faculty. (I would probably have received an 
extremely different kind from the kind I was seeking if I had.) 
Being absolutely immune from discouragement and having, in addi- 
tion, that exaggerated sense of individual and independent capability 
which is characteristic of every artist who must arrive (even though 
he has got to come half way down off his high horse in order to 
do so), I could not immediately agree with the criticisms I had 
received, although later I fully appreciated the fact that they con- 
tained some truth. 

I began to rewrite The Ice Lens, at the same time reading success- 
ful plays by such authors as Shaw and Maeterlinck and Charles 
Rann Kennedy — also works by Emerson and William DeWitt Hyde. 
It ought to be stated at this point that in both my undergraduate 
and graduate courses at Yale I had specialized in Mathematics, and 
the smatterings of English literature and drama and composition 
I had received in the Sheffield Scientific School were just as good 
as forgotten. But self-education, stimulated by the above criticisms, 
soon switched me onto the right track, and it did not take me long 
to see that my leading character — Templeton — was, for the greater 
part, OTwleading. I realized that he, who was supposed to win the 
complete sympathy of all, had, against his will, been made, by me, to 
utter some very brutal words, some of which, nevertheless, I was 
quite unwilling to drop from the play itself, because even the "all 



THE ICE LENS 7 

too human" Emerson had informed me that men want and need to 
hear "rude" truth, for the telling of which I myself had more or 
less unknowingly developed an unbridled passion. In order to 
restrain the latter (thereby "humanizing" Templeton) I wrote sev- 
eral things on a large piece of cardboard which I continually kept 
on my desk in an upright position all the while I was revising my 
play. I chanced to save this card and am therefore able to print 
here both the written law which I was trying to enforce upon 
myself and the written licence which enabled me to violate it: "If 
possible, say nothing that will cut without healing. Make Templeton 
more or less spiritual, loving and entirely sympathetic. If some 
sarcastic or rash things must (this word is underlined three times) 
be said, let them come from Metcalf." Poor Metcalf! By this 
means I succeeded in accomplishing an almost complete metamor- 
phosis of the proctor, yet all the while detesting the probability of 
his being mistaken for a mollycoddle, because I plainly foresaw that 
this character would inevitably be considered a portrayal of the 
author himself. It is hard to try to appear human and at the same 
time be djmamic — or even interesting. In the scene with Jeanette 
in the Second Act, I thought there was still one opportunity for 
Templeton to speak a little "rude" truth in such a way as not to 
appear inhuman, although I took the precaution to precede the dia- 
logue with the stage direction that "he should resort to moderation 
when his subject appears in the least offended." I knew that the 
frivolous Jeanette needed (figuratively speaking) a thorough spank- 
ing to prepare her for the message which was to urge her on into 
spanking her father. In the case of the latter spanking, I defied 
the criticisms which were holding me in harness, for I knew it 
could not possibly be effective unless it were "inhuman." Had that 
"human" spanking which Lyon received from Templeton in the 
First Act soaked in any farther than water on a duck's back? (And 
have we not been told very recently that the only language a Hun 
will listen to is the language of the big guns!) But even after 
receiving so inhuman a spanking from his daughter, Lyon finally 
needed an actual gun to convert him, although he himself had to do 
the shooting. But to return to the subject in question: I did 
"humanize" Templeton. And what I feared would happen did 
happen. Allow me to get a little ahead of my story and say that 
when the play appeared in print, one reviewer called the proctor 
"a colorless archangel ;" my sister's classmate at Mt. Holyoke moaned 
to me, "Oh why did you make him so good !" The Yale students, 



8 THE ICE LENS 

among themselves, referred to me as their "pastor," and I heard 
indirectly that one member of the faculty wanted to know if it was 
really so that Doctor Gundelfinger wore pure white nightgowns. I 
found consolation, however, in knowing that while the author-char- 
acter lacked (?) color, the play which he had written lacked enough 
"pure white" to make up for it. 

After receiving the criticisms from Broadway, I began to see 
more and more clearly that my pla}^, after all, had not been written 
primarily for the stage, although I still felt and feel that it was 
and is destined to cross the footlights sometime in the future after 
it will have been blue-penciled and modified for that purpose. I 
realized that the printed drama merely chanced to be the first 
medium through which I had been assigned by fate to deliver a 
message to the American public — a message which would often have 
to be repeated — a message which has held my mind captive as bearer 
ever since and which has been conducted twice again to the educa- 
tional world through my essays and my novel respectively. My 
oft-rejected song-comedy was, therefore, simply the key which un- 
locked my subconsciousness to a more serious field of service for 
which my environment and experiences had supplied the facts and 
for which the solitude of self-education would eventually furnish the 
better means for expressing them and for agitating reforms. 

Shortly after I had copyrighted the original manuscript before 
sending it to the judges on The Great White Way, I received a 
letter from The Shakespeare Press, saying they had observed it in 
the list at the Library of Congress and asking if they might be per- 
mitted to publish it. I happened to retain this letter. If I had not 
done so, it is possible (though not probable) that The Ice Lens 
would never have appeared in print. (For I have thoroughly learned 
since then that however unwilling producers are to accept a manu- 
script by a new author, publishers are infinitely more so — in partic- 
ular, if the author has something to say that the readers of "best 
sellers" don't care to hear, my novel, for example, having made 
twenty round trips to publishing houses in various cities, sometimes 
returning so suddenly that I believe it must have met itself coming 
back on the way out.) The Shakespeare Press was not a large or 
well-known publishing house which had grown fat by feeding printed 
mush and milk to the masses. As far as I could make out, it was 
a one-man concern to whom authors paid the funds for publication, 
the publisher deducting his royalty from the sales. The letter from 
the Shakespeare Press had taught me that it is possible to find a 



THE ICE LENS 9 

publisher for any book whatever — in fact it taught me that one can 
find such a publisher without the seeking, the latter being done by 
the publisher himself. 

I might say here, for the benefit of the inexperienced, that pre- 
paring a manuscript for a publisher is a very different thing from 
preparing it for a producer. One of the advantages is that it does 
not wear out the dash on your typewriter ; one of the disadvantages, 
that it takes a little more oil for the lubrication of the shafts which 
operate the period, the comma, the colon and the semi-colon. 
Punctuation will never mean anything to anyone until he goes to 
press. 

But before sending the punctuated copy of The Ice Lens to the 
press, I decided to make one more appeal to the stage — this time 
not to a producer btit to an actress : Maude Adams. It occurred 
to me that Miss Adams had done much to further dramatic interests 
at Yale, and I wondered if she might not be willing to help improve 
Yale morally by means of the drama. I must admit that I had my 
doubts as to her ability to fight through the role of Jeanette Lyon 
in the Third Act, even though I had seen her play the part of a 
rooster. However, my doubts were unnecessary, for Miss Adams 
not only never read the manuscript but even ignored the letter in 
which I had very politely asked her if she would care to do so. 

The Ice Lens appeared in print in February, 1913. "We have 
been advised by Yale men," said a New York paper at that time, 
"that such a stir has hardly been caused at New Haven for a long 
while as this little four-act play in book-form has raised recently." 
The campus publications undertook to smother the sensation with 
ridicule. The Yale Record, which occasionally succeeds when trying 
very hard to be funny, printed a burlesque on the play which, no 
doubt, would have won approval as a musical-comedy libretto. The 
same issue devoted two columns to a satirical retelling of the story 
in poetic (?) form, the last verse of which ran as follows: 

An epoch-making book, I ween, 
Of dainty mots, its fund'U linger 

Long after we've forgot thy spleen, 
Sublime unlettered Gundelfinger ! 

I enjoyed very much the clean fun of the Record. Be it said to 
the credit of Yale's legitimate undergraduate papers that they never 
resort to foul play. The latter, however, was capably done by a 
bastard publication which, like a toadstool, sprang up overnight 



10 THE ICE LENS 

solely for this purpose and died in a second issue after having hap- 
pily disseminated the cheap unfertile sperm of its first. The editor 
of the Eavesdropper (as the paper was "christened") must have 
been unconsciously thinking of himself, though consciously referring 
to the author of The Ice Lens, when he said: "Indeed since it was 
written by a Yale man, it could not be anything but destructive and 
insulting." Indirectly this remark also verified the existence of two 
such unworthy types of the Yale campus as Adder and DePeyster, 
who could not be better described by words other than "destructive" 
and "insulting." The perverted mind of this ephemeral journalist, 
whose name, fortunately, did not leak out with his drivel, was re- 
vealed in his attempt to eliminate (by inserting the parentheses) 
the ambiguity which probably he alone saw in DePeyster's remark: 
"See how it (the dress) fits her developments." 

The Yale Alumni Weekly, by means of which the true purpose of 
the play could have been brought before the graduates, declined to 
review it, to accept a paid advertisement, or even to mention it 
under the author's name among the Alumni Notes — a strong and 
clear proof that The Ice Lens was a play with a future. 

With the exception of The Wisconsin which thoughtfully re- 
viewed the book under the significant heading "Pricking the Research 
Work Bubble," the daily papers, although they gave the play con- 
siderable publicity, seemed to overlook entirely the fundamental 
feature of its message. A few of them seemed to see nothing in it 
except the "pink stockings, lady's size," and one reviewer unknow- 
ingly admitted his shallowness of penetration by saying, "If the 
theme is immorality in college fraternity life, why drag in disserta- 
tions on the relative values of teaching and research work, salaries 
of teachers, and other unrelated matters." For the benefit of this 
reviewer and for the benefit of many others who are of his opinion, 
I shall quote a paragraph from a speech delivered by Professor 
Robert N. Corwin before a convention of Yale alumni at Buffalo 
on June 16th, 1916: 

"The headmaster of one of our oldest and best fitting-schools — 
himself a Yale man — told me a few days ago that an increasing 
number of the boys of his school were each year preferring other 
colleges to Yale, and that this year, of a Senior class of some fifty, 
eight sons and brothers of Yale men were entering other colleges. 
To my question as to his explanation of these untoward conditions, 
he said that it was because of the lack of institutional and personal 
interest in the human welfare of our students." 



THE ICE LENS 11 

Now why is there "a lack of institutional and personal interest 
in the human welfare of our students"? There is a lack of "insti- 
tutional" interest because, of late, Yale has been aiming to become 
a great research-center rather than a school for young men. There 
is a lack of "personal" interest because her instructors know that 
"interest in the human welfare of our students" is unrewarded 
financially whereas an interest in the aim of the institution (which 
in this case means a fancy for the things of the laboratory instead 
of a devotion to the students in the dormitory) may raise salaries 
sky-high. When students are thus neglected morally and intellect- 
ually by their teachers (?), — and be it understood that the latter 
are not entirely to blame, — is it any wonder that vice runs rampant ? 
I hope the reviewers will read again the role of Metcalf in The Ice 
Lens, and open their eyes to the influence of these "unrelated" 
matters. 

Although the relation between teaching and research has been 
thoroughly discussed and debated in magazine articles which are 
seldom read by the parents of our students, The Ice Lens is the 
first attempt to introduce it into a literary form which, in addition, 
possesses other features entertaining enough to make it available 
not only for the average reader but also for that less fortunate 
being whose attention cannot be concentrated on a book and who 
needs the realism of the theatre to hold him. Stover at Yale 
(which, curiously enough, was running in McClure's when the orig- 
inal manuscript of The Ice Lens was visiting Broadway) was indeed 
a very incomplete pen picture of life in New Haven, owing to the 
fact that the author never had the opportunity to study his Alma 
Mater from the viewpoint of the faculty. For the same reason, 
Charles G. Norris, in his more recently published novel Salt, while 
he goes into the subject of academic immoralities far more deeply 
and courageously than Owen Johnson, offers no real remedy, he 
himself admitting it rather cleverly though unintentionally in the 
preface when he states that the incidents of his story are founded 
on "less than fact." 

After The Ice Lens was printed, I continued sending the play in 
book form to various theatrical managers, hoping that it might acci- 
dentally fall into the hands of a producer who would be not only 
willing but anxious to adapt it to the stage. I felt particularly san- 
guine in the case of Richard Bennett who was at that time staging 
as well as acting Brieux's Damaged Goods, which led me to think 
that Mr. Bennett was radically different from the ordinary producer 



12 THE ICE LENS 

not only in his theory of the theatre but in his own morale as well. 
Then too there were lines in the last act of the play which seemed 
to have much in common with The Ice Lens. "You know, Sir," 
says the heart-broken father, "the disaster that has befallen us. My 
son is eighteen; as the result of this disease, he is half -paralyzed. 
We are small trades people; we have regularly bled ourselves in 
order to send him to college, and now, — I only wish the same thing 
mayn't happen to others. It was at the very college gates that my 
poor boy was got hold of by one of these women * * * _ L,ook 
at him my son. He'd better be in his grave. He was such a good- 
looking chap. We were that proud of him." But The Ice Lens 
was seemingly ignored by Mr. Bennett. A letter in answer to a 
second inquiry showed that the actor-producer was not the beneficent 
manager I had anticipated, and later from a slangy and braggart 
speech before the curtain, I learned conclusively that it was his own 
nerve rather than the horrors of syphilis that he was trying to 
reveal to the American public. 

I did, however, receive letters from other managers indicating 
that my play was no longer regarded as "amateurish." 

Frankly speaking, I myself was beginning to discredit the opinion 
of that earlier critic who said that my work did not show "the in- 
stinct for plot and situation which marks a born pla5rwright," 
although I shall never refrain from admitting that the original man- 
uscript was crude. It is true that certain species of birds build their 
nests, the first as well as the last, with extreme care and choice of 
material, and it is even unexceptionally true that the workmanship 
of all bees can hardly be improved upon. Yet we know that, in gen- 
eral, instinct implies crudeness, and this is both irrefutably and 
necessarily so in the case of the human artist. Would any intelligent 
person expect a born playwright's first product to be as perfect as 
the first nest of a yellow warbler? It is not enough to be a born 
playwright; a playwright must acquire intellect in addition to his 
innate genius. Egotistic though it may seem, I am going to claim 
that the original manuscript of The Ice Lens did show dramatic 
instinct, but I wish to add shamefully in the same breath that, de- 
spite the fact that I had already acquired both a Ph.B. and a Ph.D. 
at the time, I had not acquired one smattering of intellect. A thor- 
oughly intellectual person can refer to an event as horrible as the 
onslaught at Chateau-Thierry in such a way as to make us think of 
nothing but an oriole twittering on an apple tree in whose dappled 
shadow a country maiden is powdering her young lettuce plants with 



THE ICE LENS 13 

phosphate of lime. "Fertilized with the rich blood of the world's 
best men, a new springtime is opening on the world," said President 
Dabney of the University of Cincinnati in a recent baccalaureate. I 
repeat it, that however devoid of this intellectual element the situa- 
tions in The Ice Lens were, they were not devoid of the instinct of 
a born playwright. 

I once heard Margaret Anglin in Zira, and to this day when i 
read the lines of Jeanette Lyon in the Third Act of my play, I expe- 
rience the same emotion by means of which Miss Anglin almost 
lifted me out of my seat. Incidentally, I have yet to hear the college 
president who can lift me out of my seat, although at a recent com- 
mencement in Soldiers' Memorial, Pittsburgh, Pa., I was almost 
knocked out of my seat by a certain LL.D. (plus a D.D.) as he 
went leaping about the stage not unlike a mad dachshund yelping: 
"God damn the German government!" Would that he had first 
gone to Miss Anglin to get a few pointers on how to move one's 
audience in a less literal sense! I have often thought of Miss 
Anglin as Jeanette. Not so long ago, without having to wait for 
an answer to a polite letter, I was discourteous enough to send her 
a copy of The Ice Lens by registered mail. I received an official 
receipt from the New York post office, but never a word from Zira 
herself. 

There is another interesting little incident I should _ mention 
before going on to explain the appearance of this new edition, be- 
cause it has indirectly helped to bring it about. A few years after 
I had withdrawn from the Yale faculty (The Ice Lens having be- 
come a seemingly forgotten thing and the publisher, without asking 
the permission of or even giving the information to the author, hav- 
ing destroyed five hundred sheets of the original edition) I attended 
a reception given in honor of Dr. Richard Burton, Head of the 
Department of English in the University of Minnesota and then 
President of the Drama League of America. At this reception, open 
to the members of the local center, Dr. Burton gave a short talk on 
the modern drama, saying (and apparently looking directly at me 
as he said so) that many of the plays written nowadays deserve 
nothing more than the damnation of silence. After the reception, 
the hostess, to whom I had earlier presented a copy of The Ice Lens, 
told me that she had shown it to Dr. Burton just before dinner. 
Believing firmly that mental food cannot be thoroughly digested as 
long as one's stomach is empty, I sent a copy to Minneapolis, men- 



14 THE ICE LENS 

tioning "the damnation of silence" on the flyleaf. Several months 
later I received the following note : 

"The Ice Lens has qualities of technic, expression and idea which 
I recognize as of value, and I hope you will do other dramatic work 
or print what you have done." 

I have done "other dramatic work" since then, but I preferred to 
re-publish The Ice Lens and bring it to the attention of the Drama 
League, using Dr. Burton's note in the preface. I wrote again ask- 
ing his permission to do so. In the meanwhile, I prepared a new 
manuscript for the press with numerous corrections and revisions 
and additions, although in no way altering its original message and 
purposely leaving unchanged the very features to which my earlier 
critics had most objected. On the preface-page, I wrote the follow- 
ing note for the printer : "Do not set up this prefatory note until 
I inform you that I have received Dr. Burton's approval." No word 
had come from Minneapolis. Still I waited — and waited. 

I waited until I heard the factory whistles blowing and the school 
and church bells ringing at four o'clock in the morning of Novem- 
ber the Eleventh, Nineteen Hundred and Eighteen, — the day on 
which the Great World War against Germany was brought to a 
close, — and then I went ahead. I began to write a new preface — 
these "historical" notes that you are now reading — on that memor- 
able day when the whole of the United States were in the streets 
celebrating. Although I did not finish this preface until a week 
later, nevertheless I shall put that date at the close of it. 

The Ice Lens, as you will discover, gets its name from the fol- 
lowing passage in the First Act: "It is possible to make from ice 
a lens which will project images with sufficient magnification to 
show clearly many a defect unobserved in the original by the ordi- 
nary eye. Rays of sunlight, passing through this lens, can be so 
focused as to kindle a fire, — a fire which may destroy all the de- 
fects, — although the lens itself is left unmelted and whole." 

When this passage was written for the first time, long before the 
author or many other persons had any forethought of the Great 
War (although it was at that time, no doubt, incipient in the minds 
of certain individuals), the "fire" literally referred to was that ter- 
rible scene in the Third Act where Ralph Lyon in a fury, brought 
about by the enlightenment which was "focused" on Jeanette Lyon's 
mind through John Templeton, unintentionally slays his own "de- 
fective" son. 



THE ICE LENS 15 

But I little realized then that the above passage was also a true 
prophecy and that the "fire" has been the Great World War itself 
which has burned the traditional defects not only of Yale but of 
every important educational institution of higher learning in Amer- 
ica down to the ground. The colleges and the universities have 
been practically taken over by the government as military camps, 
and the S. A. T. C. which has been established almost everywhere 
has completely revolutionized the academic life of the past. Aca- 
demic research (for there are other and necessary kinds) is now a 
smashed idol, primarily because it was originally a German idea, 
although there were many of us who recognized its intrinsic worth- 
lessness long before hymns of hate were chanted in our ears. At 
the convention of the National Education Association, held when 
the war was at white heat, there was discussed a plan to secure 
$100,000,000. from Congress for raising the salaries of those who 
teach American ideals. Football, which is war in miniature, has 
received a "kick in the head" from which it can never fully recover. 
Have not our college men, heathenlike, worshipped it, together with 
its brutal mutilation and subsequent debauchery, just as ardently as 
Bernhardi has bellowed the glories of militarism? National Pro- 
hibition, which the war has greatly advanced, means the final and 
complete stamping out of the "booze" fights on the campus and of 
those dishonorable interior scenes which are so vividly depicted in 
the following pages. Greek-letter fraternities, with all their an- 
cestral evils and their method a la Hohenzollern of perpetuating 
the sway of "college families," have been temporarily abolished, 
the chapter houses in some places having been transformed into 
"democratic eating clubs" or "hospitality houses" with a spirit of 
true brotherhood radically different from that which prevailed there 
in times of peace. The illicit views of Adder and Lyon which 
have likewise defiled the lives of many other students and 
marred their careers after graduation, are little less than slangy 
restatements of the "art-form" apophthegms of Nietzsche, The In- 
sane, who claimed that "even concubinage has been corrupted — by 
marriage" but whose crazy philosophy has been once for all dis- 
credited and shall never again influence the morale at American 
universities, where students will soon be taught the sacredness of sex. 
Then why has The Ice Lens been republished? As a picture of 
university life of today it is the very "bosh and nonsense" which 
the critics falsely called it when it first appeared. Not the slightest 
effort has been made to touch it up so as to make it appear "mod- 



16 THE ICE LENS 

ern." It remains a true and faithful picture of academic life before 
the war. And yet all those defects, which seem to have been de- 
stroyed, may creep back again into the democratic reconstruction 
of higher education after the present compulsory military regime will 
have been discarded as it gradually must, now that it has served 
its temporal purpose. In the last chapter of Henri Barbusse's 
masterpiece Under Pire, one of the soldiers, reflecting over 
the awful slaughter and misery through which they have passed, 
remarks somewhat happily, "We're forgetting-machines. Men are 
things that think a little but chiefly forget." And another soldier 
exclaims : "Then neither the other side nor us'U remember ! So 
much misery all wasted !" To which a third replies, "If we remem- 
bered, there wouldn't be any more war." This explains the new 
edition of The Ice Lens; it has been republished to help us remember. 



G. F. G. 



Sewickley, Pennsylvania, 
November 11th, 1918. 



THE ICE LENS 

"It is possible to make from ice a lens which will project 
images with sufficient magnification to show clearly many a 
defect unobserved in the original by the ordinary eye. Rays 
of sunlight, passing through this lens, can be so focused as 
to kindle a fire, — a fire which may destroy all the defects, — 
although the lens itself is left unmelted and whole." 

— John TemplETon^ Act I. 



THE CHARACTERS 



John Tempi,ETon. 

Ernest Metcai,?. 

Reginald Buckingham Adder. 

Chauncey EvErit DePeyster. 

Ralph Lyon. 

jeeeerson l,yon. 

Jeanette Lyon. 

Mrs. Dearborn Hunter. 

Mrs. Lyon. 

Jupiter, a sweep. 

Gusty, a barber. 

Giles, a bill-collector. 

Morris, a butler. 

Two Children. 

Students and Townspeople. 



The action of the play takes place in and near a typical 
American college-town a few years before the pressure of the 
Great World War directly accomplished the necessary and 
fundamental changes in American university life which were 
foreshadowed by the play itself. 



"To awake in man and to raise the sense of worth, to edu- 
cate his feeling and judgment so that he shall scorn himself 
for a bad action, that is the only aim." 

— RaIvPH Wai,do Emerson. 



. "BRIGHT COLLEGE YEARS" 

(last verse) 

In after-life, should troubles rise, 

To cloud the blue of sunny skies 

How bright will seem thro' memory's haze 

The happy, golden, by-gone days! 

Oh! Let us strive that ever we 

May let these words our watch-cry be. 

Where'er upon life's sea we sail; 

"For God, for Country, and for Yale." 

— Henry Stewart Durand. 



"// there is ground for public criticism of individuals or of 
an institution, the criticism should be made in an open and 
manly way." 

— Henry Parks Wright, 
Dean of Yale College, 1884-1909. 



ACT I 

(The lens is focused.) 



ACT I 

The scene shows the interior of a college fraternity dormi- 
tory, the time being Wednesday evening after a home 
victory on the football field. The stage is divided into 
two parts, each presenting a picture in deep contrast 
with the other. 

The larger room on the left is the study of Adder and his 
roommate DePeyster. The prevailing atm^osphere is 
that of the well-knozvn "student's sanctum," save that 
the "suspicious" articles have been temporarily stowed 
away. Each square foot of zvall space is covered by a 
brilliantly colored pennant, a witty motto or a flashy 
poster. In the foreground, against the right wall, stands 
a couch piled high with pillows of every description. 
Directly opposite, on the left, is an open fireplace filled 
with biasing logs. A bust of Shakespeare and several 
loving-cups adorn the mantelpiece over the fire. An 
exceptionally comfortable-looking Morris chair has been 
placed invitingly before the hearth. A small door, on 
the far side of the mantelpiece, opens into an adjoining 
sleeping-chamber. A similar door, in view on the wall 
at the far side of the couch, gives access to a clothes- 
closet. A pair of larger doors in the rear of the room 
connect with a hallway. To the right of these doors, a 
bookcase filled m,ostly zvith magazines; to the left, a 
graphophone with the usual conspicuously large horn. 
One enormous dark-blue banner, bearing the inscription 
FOR GOD, FOR COUNTRY, AND FOR YALE in 
white lettering, hangs above the graphophone and imme- 
diately attracts the eye. The only window in the room 
is between this banner and the bedroom door; it is 
rather large and offers an unobstructed view of the 



26 THE ICE LENS 

street. In addition to several lights on the walls, a large 
dome hangs in the center of the room directly over a 
flat-top desk, on which, am,ong other articles, are a tele- 
phone, a large silver picture frame and a tobacco jar. 
A wastebasket stands to the right of the desk. There 
are several folding chairs placed here and there for the 
occasion — a reception in honor of the football victory. 

Noticeably in the foreground, seated on one corner of the 
couch and toying with a pillow, is the ever-popular 
Jeanette Lyon, surrounded by all the young men in the 
room — some standing, some squatting on the floor, and 
Adder hifnself sitting on the couch beside her, Mrs. 
Dearborn Hunter occupies the Morris chair and is being 
entertained by DePeyster, zvho poses between her and 
the fire. Mr. and Mrs. Lyon are also am,ong the guests, 
and there are several other girls who, owing to Jeanette'"s 
popularity, must content themselves with the conversa- 
tion of the chaperons and the older married men. 

Mr. Adder is a handsome, dashing, care-free young man 
of elegant physique, with a malicious twinkle in his eye. 
Let it suffice to say that DePeyster is a typical ass — in 
looks, in actions, in talk, in everything ; he is lost in a 
gray suit tnany sizes too large, whereas all the other men 
are in formal evening dress. Jeanette Lyon is a rather 
pretty girl, exquisitely gowned; she is som,ewhat frivo- 
lous but not bold. Mrs. Hunter is easily judged by the 
immodest gown which serves to exaggerate her unwieldy 
dimensions. These personal remarks are added to com- 
plete the picture. The characters in the background may 
be studied to better advantage in the later scenes in 
which they figure more prominently. 

The smaller room on the right of the stage is John Tem- 
pleton's retreat. It is simply but neatly furnished. His 
bed stands against the right wall before a white- 
curtained window. Entrance to his room from the 



THE ICE LENS 27 

hall'may is made through a door in the left wall. To the 
right of this door, a chiffonier with a mirror and a 
candlestick ; to the left, a bookrack with num,erous vol- 
umes. There is a desk in the center of the room,, a desk 
chair in front of it, a larger lounging-chair to the right 
and a wastehasket to the left. There is one electric light 
on the wall between the door and the chiffonier; a gas- 
lamp stands on the desk. As to pictures, they are few 
in number but refined in subject — framed prints of 
classical paintings including Da Vinci's "Mona Lisa," 
which hangs over the bookrack. The Ninety-first Psalm 
is seen at the head of the bed. The absence of glary 
decorations and the em.ptiness of the walls produce an 
air of freedom rather than an atmosphere of poverty. 
The room, all in all suggests order, learning, piety and, 
above all, a beautiful and impressive solitude, which 
reaches us quite perceptibly in spite of the babble and 
clatter on the other side of the wall. 
Templeton, in a lounging-robe, sits writing at his desk. 

MRS. HUNTER — (glancing in the direction of the 
couch) Isn't it nice to be popular like Miss Jeanette? All 
the young men swarm about her like bees around the honey- 
suckle. I held the same position in this town when I was 
a girl. The students used to call me la belle charm,euse , 
and many were the sirens I put to mourning entirely with- 
out effort and absolutely without intention. (She sways her 
fan languidly .) Of course I was some thinner then. 

DePEYSTER — (with his usual affectation) Presumably 
the picket-fence variety of femininity had not yet introduced 
her meager dimensions into the realm of fashion. 

MRS. HUNTER — (zvith a sigh) Dear me ! To be popu- 
lar nowadays, one must be painfully slender ; nobody loves 
the fat woman. 

DePEYSTER — Lament not ! There are still some of us 



28 THE ICE LENS 

who take a great fancy to her jolly good nature, finding our- 
selves quite indifferent to her corpulent superfluity. 

MRS. HUNTER— ('wiY/j elation) Oh, Mr. DePeyster, 
you are very kind ; I do so much appreciate your sympathy. 

DePEYSTER — Forsooth, I see nothing extraordinaire in 
this Miss Lyon. 

MRS. HUNTER — The reason is obvious : you have more 
brain than the ordinary youth. Darwin tells us that, among 
the Hottentots, obesity in woman is considered first in the 
estimation of her beauty ; and the Hottentots, as you well 
know, are a very intellectual race. 

DePEYSTER— Yes indeed. Wasn't it frightful how 
they were massacred in Paris on Saint Bartholomew's Day ! 

MRS. HUNTER— What a perfectly wonderful head you 
must have to remember it all ! One could scarcely expect 
you to be interested in a girl like Jeanette ; she is so shallow. 
It is only natural that you seek the more mature and learned 
woman, and if you can arrange it I shall be only too glad to 
have you spend some of your long winter evenings with me. 
You will not have to suffer the agony of the ordinary magpie 
who pretends to know so much but hasn't read a single line 
from the Greek plays of Erysipelas. 

DePEYSTER — I accept your invitation with keen delight. 

(^Jupiter appears at the rear door in the garb of a waiter.) 

JUPITER — Refreshments am served in dee billiard room. 

DePEYSTER — Let me escort you to the table. 

MRS. HUNTER— frwmgr; Oh, Mr. DePeyster, you are 
so gallant. 

('DePeyster, with Mrs. Hunter hanging on his arm and 
gazing up into his eyes, leads the procession into the 
billiard room. All the other guests follow with the 
exception of Jeanette and her admirers. They, so deeply 
enwrapped in worshipping their idol, have failed to hear 
the dinner-call.) 

JEANETTE — (rising and finding herself the only girl in 



THE ICE LENS 29 

the room) Oh! am I all alone with you men? How ex- 
tremely unladylike ! My chaperon needs reprimanding. 
ALL — (in unison) May I take you to dinner, Miss Lyon ? 
JEANETTE — Dear me, it's rather perplexing to decide. 
Let us settle it this way : I shall accept him who gives the 
best answer to my question. 
ALL — Let's have it. 

JEANETTE — Why is it you all give your attention to 
me alone when I tell you I would much rather you would 
give it to the other girls ? 

ADDER — (quickly) Because you are Lyon. 
(Strains of music float from the billiard room,. Jeanette 
takes Adder's arm, and they waltz out through the door. 
The others follow in defeat. 
Templeton, after a while, takes up som,e loose sheets of 
paper from his desk and walks about the room, glancing 
them over. We see his face for the first time, and we 
see that it is strongly m,oral — the face of a man, young 
in years but m,ature in character, who has suffered in 
secret for his fellowmen — suffered both from a thor- 
ough and painful study of their conduct and from a 
restless longing for their amelioration. We are not 
immediately fascinated by any quality in him corre- 
sponding to the almost audacious but seem,ingly admir- 
able manner exhibited by Adder, and yet there is a 
certain charm, to his Christian personality, which grad- 
ually grows upon us and holds our attention to his every 
m,ove and utterance. He returns to his desk, takes up 
his pen, and makes a correction on his manuscript. 
The music ceases, and considerable applause comes from 
the direction of the billiard room,. In the m,idst of it, 
Ralph Lyon enters Templeton's room without knocking. 
Now that he is separated from, the crowd we observe 
him, more closely. His face, although strongly reminis- 
cent of fine features, seems to be murked indelibly with 



30 THE ICE LENS 

the stamp of dissipation; and yet there is something 
about it which at least suggests the dormant existence 
of a better self. In contrast with the face of Temple- 
ton, it appears somewhat fiendish at times.) 

LYON — Pardon me. You don't mind my stepping in here 
a moment, do you? 

TEMPLETON — (laying down his pen and paper) Not at 
all; you are quite welcome indeed. 

LYON — I am hunting a room free of chatter. These 
dinners, where they serve one with a lettuce leaf between 
two sheets of bread and an olive on a toothpick, are too deli- 
cate for me. I came here to get at something more sub- 
stantial. (He removes a flask from his hip pocket and offers 
it to Templeton. j Have a taste ? 

TYMVl^KTO^— (politely) No, thank you. 

LYON — (slightly disappointed) How's that? 

TEMPLETON— I don't happen to indulge. 

LYON — You don't realize what you're missing, young 
man. (He drinks, and then smacks his lips.) Great stuff 
that ! (He returns the bottle to his pocket, glances about the 
room, and then holds out an open cigar case.) Smoke? 

TEMPLETON — Thank you very much, but I really don't 
use them. Let me offer you a match. (He passes him the 
matchbox on his desk.) 

LYON — (incredibly) No drink ! No smoke ! What kind 
of man are you? (He takes a match, strikes it, lights his 
cigar, and sits in the large chair preparing for a com,fortable 
sm,oke.) Judging from the Ninety-first Psalm over your 
bed, I should guess you were a Sunday-school teacher. 

TEMPLETON — (sitting in the desk chair) Am I so good 
looking as all that ? 

LYON — How does it 'come you are not taking part in the 
reception tonight? You're a member of this fraternity — 
aren't you ? 

TEMPLETON — I carry its fellow-members — but not its 



THE ICE LENS 31 

Greek letters — next to my heart, (then humbly) I am merely 
a proctor here. 

LYON — Oh, I understand; that is, you are here to con- 
demn the boys if they come in at night with a drink or so 
too many. 

TEMPLETON — I am here not to condemn them but to 
save them. 

LYON — To save them from what? 

TEMPLETON— From evil. 

LYON — You call that evil, do you? 

TEMPLETON — All excess is evil. I notice you say : "a 
drink or so too many." 

LYON — Well, I suppose they find it hard to stop when it 
tastes best. 

TEMPLETON — Yes ; it would be a great thing if we 
could master our desires. But there are always some poor 
unfortunate ones who stubbornly refuse to reason. 

LYON— Fools, eh? 

TEMPLETON — One could scarcely call them wise men. 

LYON — (fluently) Decidedly. To sit down and drink 
until your head goes round as merrily as the good old world 
itself, leaving all cares a mile behind — that's wisdom ; and to 
have a pal whose capacity is exactly one glass more than he 
actually takes, a pal who is just about able to see you home — 
that's brotherhood. 

TEMPLETON — ^A queer kind of brotherhood indeed 
where we associate with a man to share his senselessness 
rather than to reform him. This is not the true brotherhood 
of Christianity. 

LYON — (holding up his hand) Don't ring in religion ! 
The separation of the real men from the solemn saints is the 
one great advantage of a college fraternity. We can't expect 
our sons to associate with grinds and angels. They must 
have recreation — not study. When we've got money we 
don't need brain ; when we've got money and brain, it's 



3» THE ICE LENS 

selfish as well as foolish to use both. So we keep the money 
and the pleasure, and donate to the Poor the exclusive right 
to brain and work. 

TEMPLETON — Without work there can be no pleasure 
— no real pleasure — no lasting pleasure; and there is more 
of that in the mere thought that we are doing some good for 
humanity — or even for ourselves — than there is in a whole 
cellarful of the rarest wine. 

LYON — (removing the ashes from his cigar) I have a 
son — Jefferson — who tries to live up to that principle. He 
doesn't drink ; he doesn't smoke ; he turns away from men 
who do. He walks over my money as though it were mud. 
His one and only interest is missionary work. In fact he 
reminds me a lot of you, — and I think he's a hell of a man. 

TEMPLETON — (calmly) He is your son. 

LYON — The Lord only knows he doesn't inherit it from 
me. When I was his age I was next to everything worth 
while. I knew and practiced every known pleasure. I was 
what my classmates called a "heller." 

TEMPLETON— How fortunate then that you should be 
favored with such a son ! 

LYON — Fortunate ! Ha, he's the laughing-stock of the 
town ; his interest in missionary work, and that only, has 
made him so one-sided that he can't walk straight ; and con- 
stant study has reduced his face to the inside of an oyster 
shell. 

TEMPLETON — ^And you believe this is due to applica- 
tion and learning? 

LYON — Yes ; deep study is bound to change a man's face. 

TEMPLETON — Bound to improve it. Have you ever 
thought that perhaps your son came into the world fated 
with a deformed face and body ? Those pleasures you had 
in your youth had to be paid for in some way. Nature 
always squares up her accounts, and usually the next gener- 
ation has to suffer. 



THE ICE LENS 33 

LYON— Nonsense ! That's a footless theory. If Jeffer- 
son would take a drink now and then and go out with the 
other fellows on their larks to have his blood warmed up, he 
would be a different boy. 

TEMPLETON—He may inherit that appetite; it may 
develop only too soon. 

LYON — Not too soon for me. 

TEMPLETON — And suppose he should fall victim to 
such habits. Then what? 

LYON — Then he will have pleased his father. 

TEMPLETON — Pleasing our parents by merely re-living 
their lives is such a narrow mission — in particular, when we 
are offered a nobler one. 

LYON — But he owes it to his father. 

TEMPLETON—He owes his life— his all— to our 
Father, and it is He whom the son shall please. It is His 
character we should strive to repeat. 

LYON — (mildly sarcastic) Yes ; that all sounds very nice, 
but it is we earthly parents who are bothered with the child 
until it reaches maturity. 

TEMPLETON— That is the parental duty. 

LYON — And the child should repay it. 

TEMPLETON — Yes; to its own offspring. The world 
moves forward — not backward. 

LYON — Then what's the use of having children? 

TEMPLETON — It is not always the parents who wish 
them. Sometimes God sends them when they are not 
wanted, but they never come without a purpose which the 
parent will realize in time. 

LYON — A purpose which is of no benefit to the parent. 

TEMPLETON— Always, but perhaps indirectly. My 
dear man, children are born into the world, not into families. 
This world needs all kinds of men. We have to get here 
some way; our parents are simply the mediums through 
which we come. There is no choice in the matter; the 



34 , THE ICE LENS 

sinner may beget the saint. After all, we are God's chil- 
dren, and as soon as we are strong enough to leave the 
mother's wingf we should fly out into His heaven and do the 
work for which we have been created. 

LYON — But think of it ! a missionary ! 

TEMPLETON— The noblest ambition of all. 

LYON — Ambition ! I call that a rut. 
. TEMPLETON — They are one and the same thing. We 
all have to do something, and that something becomes our 
ambition — our rut. There is a road to salvation and a road 
to ruin. You will find ruts in both of them. It is no harm 
if our wheels get into these ruts ; the only question is : "Are 
we on the right road ?" 

LYON — What good is the right road if we stick there 
and rot? 

TEMPLETON— Beautiful flowers spring out of the mold 
to illuminate the way for others. 

LYON — (rising abruptly) Hell ! You're too damned 
poetic for me. If we should argue all night, I would still 
uphold that Jefferson is not the boy he ought to be, and 
that's why I put him in college. If I should ever offer a 
prayer, it would be that the other boys might lay hold on 
him and turn him into a man. I don't care what means they 
employ to do it. What he needs is goodf ellowship, wine and 
— woman. 

TEMPLETON — And you consider the promotion of 
these things the first purpose of a college ? 

LYON — Decidedly. What should it be? a workhouse? 

TEMPLETON — A place of learning where we might 
acquire understanding and the higher Christian fellowship 
to prepare ourselves for service to God and His people. 

LYON — You've got it worse than Jefferson. I thought I 
liad him located in a house free from this infernal religious 
influence, but Holy Jerusalem ! if here ain't St. Peter him- 
self. 



THE ICE LENS 35 

TEMPLETON — Your son will not be influenced by me. 
He is under the influence of a Power which is more than 
human. Perhaps you will understand me better if I say he 
has been summoned by the Almighty Shepherd to rescue a 
lamb which has strayed from His fold. 

LYON — (Tvith a sneer) A lamb ! Ha, ha, — you preachers 
are so damned considerate. Why don't you say outright 
what you mean? Instead of a lamb, call me a black sheep- 
and be done with it. 

TEMPLETON — The sheep only appears black from the 
darkness in which it walks. But it shall be cleansed and 
made white again. God has sent you one of those unwel- 
come children for the purpose of saving the soul of its own 
beloved father. The child has not taken up its cfoss in vain, 
for mark you ! that father will soon open his eyes to the 
truth. 

(Ralph Lyon chuckles demoniacally and walks away. Be- 
fore leaving the room he casts a scornful glance at 
Templeton, exhales a cloud of smoke from his cigar, and 
then closes the door with a slam. 

Templeton returns calmly to his work on the desk. 

Jeanette Lyon, holding a plate and a napkin, enters 
Adder's room,. He, likewise provided, follows her.) 

ADDER — ^At last I have you alone. 

JEANETTE — (jum,ping on the desk, spreading the nap- 
kin across her knee, and nibbling at the food on her plate) 
And it is such a relief too. Dear me ; it's almost a bore to be 
admired by so many. Now there's Mr. Brown ; he said he 
was wild about me. Then Mr. Miller came along and said 
he was mad about me. And so on during the whole evening. 
Mr. Taylor said he was crazy ; Mr. Wallace said he was 
daffy; Mr. Morton said he was dippy; Mr. Le Grand said 
he was simply sick. Now ; what in the world are you? 

ADDER — I've passed through all those stages long ago, 
and now I'm dead — dead in love with you, Jeanette. 



36 THE ICE LEKS 

JEANETTE— Well, you win the prize. 

ADDER— What is it? 

JEANETTE — (passing him her plate) My lobster salad. 
I don't like it. 

ADDER — (placing both plates on the desk) Jeanette, I 
have never seen you look more beautiful than you do tonight ! 

JEANETTE — Be more explicit, Reginald, 

(It must he frankly admitted that Jeanette Lyon is lovely 
to look upon. If there is a genuine and sensible soul 
under all her external finery, then, in this scene at least, 
her vainglory likewise prevents us from seeing it.) 

ADDER — Your eyes are like two glittering stars in a 
celestial countenance. 

JEANETTE — Your language is perfectly angelic. Say 
some more — quick. 

ADDER — Your cheeks are like the crimson glow on a 
woodland rose at sundown. 

JEANETTE — That's immense. Go on. 

ADDER — Your voice is like the song of a thrush in the 
early springtime. 

JEANETTE — Exquisite! Exquisite! and my hair? 

ADDER — Like golden-brown leaves aflame with the mel- 
low sunlight of a dreamy October day. 

JEANETTE — (clapping her hands) Glorious! and my 
new gown? 

ADDER — A lacework of dewdrops clinging to the stem 
of a lily. 

JEANETTE — Wonderful! Magnificent! (She swings 
herself about in ecstasy on the top of the desk, and then the 
expression on her face changes very suddenly.) I have sat 
in the mayonnaise ; I know it. (She jumps from the desk.) 
Please examine me. 

ADDER — (standing behind her) Oh! it has ruined your 
gown, 

JEANETTE — (turning about on her heel, throwing her 



THE ICE LENS 37 

arms around his neck, and exposing the enormous grease 
spot) I don't care as long as you love me. 

ADDER — (with his arms about her waist) Jeanette ! 

JEANETTE — You make me tingle all over with happi- 
ness. 

ADDER — (removing a ring from his finger and placing it 
on hers) And here's more of it. 

JEANETTE — My engagement ring! Oh! isn't it a 
beauty ! 

ADDER — You shall have everything that money can buy. 
As I sit at my work with your picture before me (He takes 
up the silver frame from the desk.) here in the frame you 
gave me at Christmas time, I plan for the happy future I 
am going to provide for you. We shall live for months in 
the capitals of Europe; we shall have our summer villa on 
the shore of the Mediterranean; we shall visit Paris every 
season to renew your wardrobe; we shall be the guests of 
royalty. Your name shall head the society column of eveiy 
fashionable paper ; other women will look up to you in deep 
envy, while you, smiling with majestic scorn and frigid indif- 
ference, can ignore them one and all. 

JEANETTE — (repeating her embrace) You darling, dar- 
ling fellow! 

fMrs. Lyon enters the room. She is attired for her car- 
riage and holds Jeanette's cape over her arm,. It will 
take us but a short time to perceive that she is not the 
type of woman we would anticipate as the wife of Ralph 
Lyon. On hearing her speak, Jeanette and Adder 
quickly separate.) 

MRS. LYON — Jeanette dear, I think we will have to be 
going now. 

JEANETTE— So soon. 

MRS. LYON — Your father ordered the car for ten 
o'clock ; he seems to have forgotten about it. Perhaps Mr. 
Adder will find him for us and tell him the car is ready. 



38 THE ICE LENS 

ADDER — (placing the picture frame on the desk, and 
then leaving the room) Gladly, Mrs. Lyon. 

MRS. LYON — You were ready to leave — were you not, 
dear? 

JEANETTE — I am never ready to leave Reginald; he is 
so wonderful. 

MRS. LYON — Yes, dear ; all these men seem wonderful 
to us at first. We women lose our heads over them so easily. 
We should be more careful about allowing ourselves to 
become so intimate with them. 

JEANETTE— Why this little sermon ? 

MRS. LYON — I chanced to see you in Mr. Adder's arms. 

JEANETTE — What of that? I am already engaged to 
him. 

MRS. I.YON—(bemildered) Engaged ! 

JEANETTE — Yes ; he gave me the ring tonight. (She 
holds out her hand.) See what a beauty it is ! 

MRS. LYON — (pressing her daughter's hand) I do not 
wish to make you feel unhappy, dear, but I believe this affair 
has ripened too quickly ; it almost seems as though this ring 
has been picked up by accident in the street. 

JEANETTE — (withdrawing her hand) How absurd you 
are! 

MRS. LYON — It is only for your own happiness, 
Jeanette, that I express my opinion. 

JEANETTE — You needn't bother about it in the least. 
Father and I have planned it all, and he has thoroughly inves- 
tigated the matter of Mr. Adder's character and finds it 
absolutely faultless. 

MRS. LYON — I am glad to hear it, dear, but I thought a 
mother, with her experience, should stand closer to her 
daughter in a case like this. Girls are so apt to act thought- 
lessly and mistake some luring disguise for true love. I have 
often wished my mother had been living when such things 
troubled my youthful mind. 



THE ICE LENS 39 

JEANETTE — Things have changed since then, and any- 
how — Reginald is so perfectly wonderful. 

(^Adder and Lyon enter the door, the latter with his hat 
and gloves. Jeanette rushes forward to meet her father, 
displaying the ring.) 

Look, Dad. The ring ! The ring ! I know it will make 
you just as happy as me. 

LYON — (caressing her) Happy that my little girl is get- 
ting such an admirable and manly husband. (He takes 
Jeanette's hand in one of his, and Adder's in the other. Then 
bringing them together, he adds the usual:) God bless you, 
my children. 

MRS. LYON — (trying to conceal a certain sadness) Come 
along, Ralph ; they've been holding hands all evening. 

("Mrs. Lyon throws the cape over Jeanette's shoulders, and 
leaves the room,. The others follow. The guests are 
seen nodding their ''Good-byes" in the hallway. Mrs. 
Hunter, in a black velvet cloak, steps into Adder's room 
with DePeyster trailing after her like a pet dog.) 

MRS. HUNTER — I must gaze again upon the spot where 
first I met you ; never have I known a more remarkable man. 

DePEYSTER— You really mean it, Mrs. Hunter? 

MRS. HUNTER — Yes, indeed. I was once a student in 
Phrenology, and believe me, Mr. DePeyster, I have never 
seen a more nobly shaped head. Your very ears are sym- 
bolic of supernatural intelligence ; your mouth is expressive 
of determination, conscientiousness and individuality ; your 
nose typifies benevolence, and your eyes are filled with the 
fire of love and passion. In fact, your entire physique is 
perfection personified. 

DePEYSTER — You are the first woman to observe it 
in me. 

MRS. HUNTER— Not every one can see it, Mr. De- 
Peyster. In order to see the great in you, one must forget 
all other men, and so few of us have that power of concen- 



40 THE ICE LENS 

tration. I have acquired it only after years of mental labor, 
and believe me, Mr. DePeyster, I can think of you and at 
the same time have nothing on my mind. 

DePEYSTER — It is a great honor to have had so mar- 
velous a woman at our reception. I hope you have enjoyed 
yourself. 

MRS. HUNTER— Alas ! I never enjoy myself— but I 
have enjoyed you. Do come to see me often. Mr. Hunter 
will probably irritate you just as he does me, but we shall 
arrange it this way: Call us up on the 'phone. If Mr. 
Hunter answers — well, just say you're the fishman. Then 
I'll come to the receiver. If I order bluefish — that will mean 
Mr. Hunter is not going to the Club. If I order lobster — 
that's you. Understand? 

DePEYSTER— Perfectly. 

MRS. HUNTER— Good night, Mr.— may I call you 
Chauncey ? 

DePEYSTER — 'Twould be a pleasure. Let me see you 
to your carriage. 

MRS. HUNTER— Oh, Mr. DePeyster, you are so gallant. 

(She offers him her arm, and they strut out of the room. 
Adder returns. He lights a cigarette, and walks up and 
dozvn the floor, finally stopping at the desk and taking 
up the silver picture fram,e. While he is gazing at the pic- 
ture, Jupiter enters to gather up the plates and napkins.) 

JUPITER — (looking over Adder's shoulder) She sut- 
tanly am a regulaar little queen, Mr. Adder — dee most 
fascinatinest gal at dis here reception. 

ADDER — I know what you're talking for, Jupiter. (He 
reaches into his pocket, and hands him a hill.) Here's for 
working overtime. 

JUPITER — Thank you, sah. Thank you, sah. 

(^Jupiter walks toward the door, and, still glancing hack at 
Adder, he naturally collides with DePeyster who is just 
returning.) 



THE ICE LENS 41 

DePEYSTER — Confound you, Jupiter; why don't you 
watch where you're going? You splattered that salad all 
over me — this is a clever mess, you silly ape. 

JUPITER — (using the napkin) Sorry, Mr. DePeyster; 
very sorry. 

DePEYSTER — Sorry be hanged ! It wouldn't be so bad 
if it were my suit. Run along; you annoy me. fjupiter 
vanishes.) Poor Jupiter! he's such an ass. Well, Addy 
dear, we must congratulate ourselves on the success of our 
reception. I sure did cut a swell in your clothes. Mrs. 
Hunter thought I was a dream. 

ADDER — (still gazing at the picture) Yes ; she must 
have been asleep to think that. 

DePEYSTER— Well, Addy dear, I know it doesn't fit 
me so very well — but what was I to do ? My suit was at the 
pressers ; they forgot to return it. I was really in a great 
dilemma — didn't know what to put on. But as I sat in pro- 
found meditation, the door bell vibrated — it was the errand 
boy with your new suit. So I just slipped into it. I knew it 
was scarcely the proper thing to wear, but it at least helped 
me to look conspicuous. I have so few idiosyncrasies, you 
know, that I must seek very ingenious devices for attracting 
attention. 

ADDER — Well, you sure did it to-night, Chaunce. Miss 
Lyon told me you looked like a flat tire. 

DePEYSTER — Yes ; she punctured my feelings with the 
same remark. Of course I didn't care to have her know I 
was wearing your clothes, and yet I knew she might see you 
in them sooner or later. So I explained matters by saying 
that m^y tailor had made a botch of his job and that I was 
going to sell you the garments at half price. Aren't I the 
clever liar, Addy dear? 

ADDER — Damn clever ; you should have been a lawyer. 
Consider yourself as having won your first suit. 

DePEYSTER — I say, Addy, have you another cigarette ? 



42 THE ICE LENS 

ADDER— No. 

DePEYSTER — Never mind; this one will do. (He re- 
moves the cigarette from Adder's mouth and begins smoking 
it him,self.) 

ADDER — (still holding the picture frame) What do you 
think of Miss Lyon, Chaunce? 

DePEYSTER — (bloming the smoke from, one corner of 
his distorted mouth) She's just a mediocre girl; her face is 
very much against her. 

ADDER— Against her ? 

DePEYSTER — (covering his face with his open hand) 
Yes ; flat. I prefer the plumper variety — Mrs. Hunter for 
example. 

ADDER — Mrs. Hunter ! she's a regular old parrot. 

DePEYSTER — Well, I don't exactly know what species, 
but I must admit she is a bird. I've made a date with her 
for the opera. Brilliant woman ! 

ADDER — Well, there's this objection to Jeanette: she's 
too damn refined. These educated girls are all right for 
the mother of a man's children, but for the instrument 
of his pleasure — it takes a girl like Lulu to deliver the 
goods. 

DePEYSTER— Who in the devil is Lulu? 

ADDER — (placing the frame on the desk and then closing 
the door) Just met her last night for the first time. She's 
in town with the Mermaid Burlesquers, and does a dance in 
the last act that is certainly the cream of the season. (He 
unlocks the desk drawer and produces a photograph.) 
There ; feast your eyes. 

DePEYSTER — (with a whistle) Hasn't she the peach- 
erino of a figure ! 

ADDER — And you ought to see it wiggle in the spot 
light. 

DePEYSTER — Wiggle! Say oscillate — it doesn't sound 
so vulgar. 



THE ICE LENS 43 

ADDER — Chaunce, old boy, she just steps out on the 
stage in that costume, and it brings down the whole house. 

DePEYSTER — Sure enough ! she has a costume on ; I 
hadn't noticed it. 

ADDER — Just see how it fits her developments. 

DePEYSTER— Ah ! it's a blessing to be perfect. Mrs. 
Hunter was raving over my face and figure. 

ADDER — Yes ; they are enough to make anybody rave. 

DePEYSTER — I say, Addy dear, has Lulu any other 
accomplishments aside from mere physical charm ? 

ADDER — Yes ; she can drink like a fish. (He produces 
an empty champagne bottle from the drawer.) We emptied 
three of these last night. I kept this one for sweet recollec- 
tions. See there; she has scratched her name across the 
neck with her diamond ring. She gave me that ring, and 
I gave her mine, and the joke of it all is that I handed hers 
over to Jeanette to-night in final settlement of our engage- 
ment. 

DePEYSTER— Lord ! if Jeanette knew that ? 

ADDER — (tapping on the bottle) Mum's the word. You 
see, Chaunce, old boy, after all, a fellow's really got to have 
two girls — one for week days and one for Sunday. Jeanette's 
my Sunday girl — my angel ; Lulu's my little devil. Just look 
at her eyes ! Compare the two faces : Lulu's has the dash 
and brilliancy of a brass band ; Jeanette's is like the sweet 
strain of a violin slightly out of tune. 

DePEYSTER— I told you it was flat. 

ADDER — (holding up the two pictures, one in each hand) 
Jeanette and Lulu — sarsaparilla and absinthe. When I take 
dinner with Jeanette, it's dry. 

DePEYSTER— And when you take it with Lulu? 

ADDER — It's extra dry. I tell you, Chaunce, she's irre- 
sistible ; I'd follow her through fire. 

DePEYSTER— You probably will. 

ADDER — (taking another picture from, the drawer) 



44 THE ICE LENS 

Here's another one ; a three-quarter view. But I prefer her 
full. 

DePEYSTER — (holding the second photograph) Scanty- 
costume seems to be her long suit. 

ADDER — She told me her manager thought the public 
wouldn't stand for that one. So she added more to it by 
putting another plume in the hat. 

DePEYSTER— Hasn't she the pretty elbows? They 
annoy me. I say, Addy dear, we must tack these up some- 
where in the room. 

ADDER — From now on, this one goes in Jeanette's frame 
every day but Sunday. (He removes Jeanette's picture, puts 
it away in the drawer, and places Lulu's in the silver frame.) 

DePEYSTER— And the other one? 

ADDER — On the mantelpiece with the rest of our 
trophies. Where are they? To hell with these receptions 
where you have to turn your room into a Sunday school! 
Bring out the decorations, and make things look like home. 
You get Fatima ; she's behind my bed. 

fDePeyster trots into the bedroom. Adder begins to 
whistle a merry tune ; he opens the closet door and drags 
out a large box filled with empty bottles, steins, etc. He 
carries it across the room to the fireplace.) 

ADDER — (taking up one of the empty bottles) King 
William ! yum, yum. He who drinks whiskey shakes beer. 
(To make room for the bottle he knocks the bust of Shakes- 
peare from the mantelpiece, sending it to the hearth in 
pieces.) That's such a stale joke. (He picks up the remains 
of the cast.) I'm sorry I cracked it. (He throws the pieces 
into the fire.) Proved at last : Shakespeare is Bacon. (With 
one sweep of his arm he clears the mantelpiece of the re- 
maining articles and sends them to the floor. He then reads 
the inscriptions on the labels of the various bottles as he 
places them on the shelf.) Monday night — October 4th. — 
with "Bud" Taylor, "Bunnie" Miller and "Jack" AlHson. 



THE ICE LENS 45 

(He takes a third bottle from the box.) Oct. 5th. — same 
bunch, (a fourth bottle) Oct. 6th. (a fifth bottle) Oct. 7th. 
(a sixth bottle) Oct. 9th. — How's that? One missing. (He 
scratches his head.) Oh yes ; that's the night we had the 
keg, (He runs to the couch and rolls a keg from under- 
neath. He carries it on his shoulder and places it on one 
corner of the m,antelpiece, putting steins and glasses on top 
of it. Then he stands off to get a good view of the entire 
display.) Gala Week at the beginning of the Fall term. 
('DePeyster enters, carrying a large oil painting of a nude 
woman in a reclining position. He stands on the couch 
and hangs the picture above it at a careless angle.) 
ADDER — She must hang straight, Chaunce, or the blood 
will run to her head, and we don't want her to get cold feet. 
('DePeyster straightens the picture.) There, that's better. 
Now get Psyche ; I rolled her under your bed. 

('DePeyster makes a second trip to the bedroom. Adder 
takes a large KEEP OFF THE GRASS sign and hangs 
it directly below the painting. He tacks suggestive 
posters on the backs of all the doors. Then, returning 
to his supply box, he gets hundreds of empty cigarette 
boxes strung on twine. He puts them up like festoons 
reaching from, the dome to each corner of the room. 
DePeyster enters, carrying affectionately in his arms a 
life-sized marble statue of Psyche. He stands her in 
the center of the floor in front of the desk. Adder and 
DePeyster each take one of her arms, and, striking a 
majestic pose, they shout: "God Bless Our Home.") 
ADDER — (glancing about the room) Now that looks 
more like it — ^but I almost forgot the finishing touches. (He 
produces a pair of pink stockings from the desk drawer and 
hangs them up on either side of the dome.) 
DePEYSTER— Lulu's, I suppose? 
ADDER— Sure thing ! 
DePEYSTER — Oh dear, how they annoy me! I say, 



46 THE ICE LENS 

Addy, I must have an introduction to this Httle Venus of 
yours. What 'o you say we go to the show to-night, and 
then take her down to the "Pink Pigeon ?" I could be a sort 
of chaperon. All I'd care for would be to pat her once or 
twice on the elbow. Those dear little elbows ! How they 
annoy me ! 

ADDER — Nothing doing in that line to-night, Chaunce. 

DePEYSTER — You mean the mermaids have swum out 
of town? 

ADDER — No ; they are making their last splash this 
evening. 

DePEYSTER— My last chance to see Lulu? 

(He gets two overcoats from the closet. He puts on his 
own — an extreme English cut measuring about six 
inches across the shoulders and flaring copiously at the 
bottom. He places a ridiculously small hat on the back 
of his head. Then he holds out Adder's fur-lined coat 
to help him on with it.) 

DePEYSTER— Jump in. 

ADDER — (filling his pipe) Not I, Chaunce. 

DePEYSTER— Stop your bluffing, and come along. 

ADDER — Sorry, old man, but I can't — I simply must 
not go. 

DePEYSTER — What's come over you ? 

ADDER — (lighting his pipe) I've got to study. 

DePEYSTER— Study ! the night after the football game 
— when the whole student body is down town celebrating ! 
What the hell are you givin' me ? 

ADDER — (taking a letter from the draiver) I mean it. 
Here, read this. 

DePEYSTER — (solemnly placing Adder's coat on the 
couch) Grandmother dead? (He approaches the desk sadly 
until he recognizes the envelope.) A letter from the Reg- 
istrar ! Rats ! (With a szving of his arm, he knocks the 
letter from Adder's hand into the wastebasket.) 



THE ICE LENS 47 

ADDER — I get my last crack at that exam to-morrow, 
and if I flunk I'm down and out. 

DePEYSTER — Don't let that worry you. Have your old 
man come up and hot-air to the faculty, or tell him to pre- 
sent the university with a hundred thousand, and they'll let 
you in again. 

ADDER — I've made arrangement with Metcalf to come 
around and tutor me to-night. He's going to pump enough 
dope into my belfry to get me through. Don't for a second 
think I would waste my own gray matter on such tommyrot 
as long as I can find a shark with his garret for rent. Poor 
devils ! their heads are so crammed full of this nonsense they 
call knowledge that their tongues hang out for money. But 
then we rich must have our servants ; the good Lord has 
even provided us with men to do our thinking. 

DePEYSTER — -If the possession of wisdom demands the 
decayed condition of these, then let me live forever in ignor- 
ance. 

ADDER — As long as they're helping us to bluff our way 
through we've got to recognize them, but, aside from that, 
I would just as lief lift my hat to a worm in the gutter. You 
haven't seen my book anywhere, have you ? 

DePEYSTER — I haven't seen a book of any kind for the 
last month — except "Three Weeks." 

ADDER — (fishing a hook out of the wastehasket) Here it 
is. Now really, Chaunce, don't let me keep you away from 
the show if you want to go. (Then emphatically:) I am 
going to study. 

(With equal emphasis, he plants the frame with Lulu's 
picture before him on the desk. Then he sits down with 
the book in his hand and the pipe in his w,outh; but his 
eyes are on the photograph.) 

DePEYSTER — You do look unusual with a book in your 
hand, Addy dear ; a glass of Pilsener becomes you much 
better. Perhaps it's the pipe that spoils the picture. Let 



48 THE ICE LENS 

me see if it wouldn't be more harmonious without it. (He 
removes the pipe from Adder's mouth.) Much better ; very- 
much better. (The pipe finds its way quite naturally to his 
own mouth.) I wouldn't think of going to the show alone; 
I am going to stay right here with you, old pal. (He re- 
moves his coat and hat, throwing them on the couch.) I'm 
damn glad to see you taking your studies so seriously, and 
believe me I wouldn't think of disturbing you. 

fDePeyster starts the graphophone, — a dream^y waltz, — 
and, taking the statue of Psyche in his arms, he dances 
noiselessly around the desk two or three times and then 
throws himself into the Morris chair, puffing out vol- 
umes of smoke. There is a short silence, save for the 
graphophone, when Adder actually appears interested 
in his book. This silence is broken by DePeyster.j 
DePEYSTER — It will be hard for me to die and never 
hear any more of this heavenly music. Of course I won't 
mind the smoke so much. 

(This remark falls on deaf ears. The graphophone stops 

playing; there is the familiar "scratching"' at the end of 

the record, but neither of the boys make an effort to 

stop it. After a while Adder reads aloud.) 

ADDER — (reading) A man, six feet tall, is walking away 

from a lamp-post, ten feet high, at the rate of four miles an 

hour. How fast is his shadow moving ? 

DePEYSTER — The problem is absurd — no man with 
common sense would walk away from a lamp-post. 

(A band on the street strikes up the Yale football song — 
"Down the Field." DePeyster rises instantly and 
throws open the window. The room is filled with 
cheers, and his face is aglow in the red light from the 
torches.) 
ADDER— What's that? 

DePEYSTER — The Parade ! The fellows are celebrating 
the football victory ; I told you they would. Gee, what a jolly 



THE ICE LENS 49 

mob ! I say, Addy dear, we can't sit here like two old men 
with the gout. Put on your old gray bonnet, and we will try 
that lamp-post problem on the way home. 

ADDER — Confound you, Chaunce; put down that win- 
dow. I've got to stick to this book to-night. 

DePEYSTER — Book be hanged! Have you no loyalty 
for your team? You're a hell of a sport — ^you sit here in a 
brown study while your classmates are painting the town 
red. It annoys me. 

ADDER — Damn you ; I can't come. I'll be dropped from 
college. 

DePEYSTER — Who gives a rap ? Jeanette ? Well you've 
still got Lulu, and she'd be prouder of you than ever if you 
flunked every damned course in the curriculum. It's just 
10 :30 — time for her dance in the last act. She's going 
through those little movements — everyone in the audience 
is cheering — ^the whole house is mad — and now she's looking 
for you in the front row — her eyes are calling out passion- 
ately for you to come. Are you going to say "no"? Like 
hell you are. Come along; don't be a quitter. 

fDePeyster again puts on his overcoat and hat, and exe- 
cutes a lively and sensual dance. The hand seems 
louder; the red fire, brighter; the cheers, more spirited. 
He snatches one of the pink stockings from, the dome, 
and dangles it before Adder's eyes in tempo with the 
music. Adder, under great tem,ptation, squirms about 
in his chair. He finally succumbs, takes up Lulu's pic- 
ture, covers it with kisses, returns it to the desk, and 
then dons his hat and overcoat.) 
ADDER — You've got me, Chaunce; you've got me, old 
pal ; we're in for one hell of a good time. 

(They throw their arm^ about each other, join in on a loud 
war cry, and rush to the door. On opening it, they find 
Metcalf standing on the threshold with a book under his 
arm.) 



50 THE ICE LENS 

DePEYSTER— fa^if/^; Damn ! 

ADDER — (politely removing his hat) Good evening, Mr. 
Metcalf. I have decided not to tutor to-night. Here's the 
money for the time I reserved with you. (He passes him the 
fee.) We think it will do us more good to grind out the 
lesson for ourselves, so we are going over to Dick Thom- 
son's room on the campus to study together, (to DePeysterJ 
Don't forget the text book, Chaunce. (to Metcalf j Good 
night, Sir. 

fAdder hows very properly. DePeyster takes the hook 
under his arm, and hoth hoys leave the room, where the 
lights are left on and the window open. They close the 
door. 

Templeton has heen writing at his desk ever since Lyon 
left him and closed his door on the scenes which we have 
witnessed in the meanwhile.) 

TEMPLETON — (responding to a knock on his door) 
Come in. 

METCALF — (entering Templeton's room) Hello there, 
Templeton. 

TEMPLETON — (rising) Why, you are quite a stranger 
here. 

METCALF — (shaking hands) I just dropped in to tutor 
young Adder, but he has decided to work out the lesson with 
a classmate. They will learn more by it. I would never 
have believed they could take such a genuine interest in their 
studies. I'll have a better opinion of them after this. (At 
this instant, the text hook com,es flying in through the open 
window in Adder's room,. There is a prolonged cheer from 
the street, and then the noise dies away as the parade moves 
on.) The students are certainly doing the town up in great 
shape to-night. 

TEMPLETON — If they would show one-half as much 
enthusiasm in their studies, we would have a wonderful 
university. 



THE ICE LENS 51 

METCALF — There would be no more need for tutors or 
instructors either, and I'd get my walking papers. But I 
suppose it was a great game; you can't altogether blame 
them for feeling their oats. I wish I could be half as happy. 
(He lets his hook slip from under his arm to the floor, and 
throws himself despondently into the large chair.) 

TEMFLETON— (sitting) Why, what's the matter, Met- 
calf ? You seem low in spirits. 

METCALF — (glancing about the room) You're a free 
man ; I envy you. You can thank your stars you don't have 
to clear off the supper table, put on diapers, and wash dishes. 

TEMPLETON— Why don't you get a maid? 

METCALF — Maid ! I'm lucky I have enough money to 
keep the kids in shoes. Look at that hat. (He throws his 
shabby derby on the desk.) I bought it at the second-hand 
store for a quarter. I haven't smoked a decent cigar since 
the youngest arrived, and the only amusement I get is a 
moving-picture show at the nickelodeon once a month when 
my salary check comes around. 

(It is true that Metcalf's appearance justifies DePeyster's 
remark on his "decayed condition." It is due, however, 
m,ainly to his clothes.) 

TEMPLETON — Well surely you didn't go into teaching 
with the idea of making money ? You knew in advance that 
the pay was poor. Teaching is reserved for the man who 
has married a bank account. 

METCALF — Rats ! Ours wasn't a financial deal. I was 
lonely for a true companion, and I married Kate because I 
loved her. 

TEMPLETON — Yes ; that is considered a very common 
mistake. Nowadays the faculty teach for love and marry . 
for m,oney. 

METCALF — Nowadays the faculty don't teach at all. 
Teaching is entirely out of date; it has been replaced by the 
"research mania" — a disease where the victim is consumed 



62 THE ICE LENS 

by a ravishing desire to produce articles for collecting the 
dust in our libraries. Write a twenty-page pamphlet which 
nobody — not even yourself — can or needs to comprehend, 
and every line of it adds a dollar to your salary. But put 
your effort on teaching something that everyone can and 
should understand, and you're a disgrace to your university. 

TEMPLETON — Come, come, it is not so bad as all that. 
There is nothing disgraceful about a small income. 

METCALF — It is not only income ; it is recognition. We 
teachers who are trying to rescue the multitude from a sea 
of ignorance are looked down upon by these research gods 
whom the university places on pedestals, and for whom they 
erect million-dollar temples in which to hatch their butterfly 
eggs. Let us be frank ; now who is the greater benefactor ? 
the man who goes on investigating either something footless 
or something superintellectual (there's not much difference 
between them) or the man who imparts to humanity 
those things which have already been discovered and found 
useful ? 

TEMPLETON — Of course you can not deny the noble- 
ness of experiments resulting in the general welfare and 
progress of the race. 

METCALF— Decidedly not. But what has the world 
gained through the discovery that there are always two 
million and one hairs on a cat's tail, or that Shakespeare 
never ate mutton ? Rot ! What the world needs to know is 
that two and two make four, and it should be the office of a 
college to provide with a respectable income those men who 
are teaching it. The American public always has been an 
easy mark : they believe that the money they pay out as 
tuition for their sons at college procures for them the best 
possible educators. They are not aware of the fact that 
Old Tiddledewinks, for example, who lectures to one soli- 
tary disciple on some highfalutin meander of his lopsided 
mind sits there and rakes in his five thousand a year, while 



THE ICE LENS 53 

the man who hands out common-sense to over a hundred of 
their sons doesn't draw the salary of a New York policeman. 

TEMPLETON — Don't consider it an injustice until you 
consider other things aside from money. It is not what we 
get out of this world ; it is what we do to improve it that 
counts. 

METCALF— That counts for what? 

TEMPLETON— That counts toward the greatest of all 
possessions — happiness. Aren't you improving mankind by 
your teaching, and aren't you rewarded happily for doing 
it? If you think these more highly paid souls are happy, 
you are much mistaken. There they sit surrendering their 
whole lives, deciphering the yellow wormy pages of some 
Hebrew manuscript, fondling the dead bones of some pre- 
historic skeleton, inhaling the offensive fumes of virulent 
chemicals, and alternately exciting their thirst for worldly 
fame with stimulants, then quenching it with deadly nar- 
cotics. Be merciful; don't begrudge them their salary. It 
is all they have to console them in their miserable solitude. 
(He rises and pats Metcalf firmly on the shoulder.) Wake 
up, Metcalf ; get down on your knees, and thank God you 
have a home that rings with children's laughter. 

METCALF— But the children must be fed? 

TEMPLETON — Give them lots of fresh air and a banana 
now and then ; they'll grow. 

METCALF — It is easy enough for you to look at the 
bright side of things. 

TEMPLETON — It is easy enough for anyone. All we 
have to do is to turn the dark side away. 

METCALF — That's more easily said than done. 

TEMPLETON — Then look for an instant at something 
darker, and you will soon find that your own isn't so black 
after all. Think of the coal digger who descends with his 
whole family into a mine, and never gets a glimpse of day- 
light. 



54 THE ICE LENS 

METCALF — (ruing quickly to take Templeton's hand in 
both of his own) That has made me feel happier than I have 
felt in a long while. 

TEMPLETON— That's the proper spirit. The life of a 
married man with a modest income and a healthy family 
isn't so gloomy after all, is it? Perhaps you did marry too 
soon. Yet who knows but that you avoided a greater mis- 
take by doing so. Thank God the children your wife has 
brought into the world are blessed with a clean father and a 
pure birth. The world stands badly in need of such chil- 
dren. 

METCALF — I don't see you doing anything in that direc- 
tion. 

TEMPLETON — Because there is another love which this 
world needs even more than nuptial love. God only knows 
there are enough neglected children whom the childless may 
well take under their care for guidance. Not only children, 
but men — men without reason — whose parents, through 
ignorance, are unable to pilot them. These must be saved 
and conquered by that love we call "Fraternity." 

METCALF — Settlement work in other words ? 

TEMPLETON — No ; the poorer people are happier than 
we think they are. They are forced to labor, but they enjoy 
the fruits of it. It is the people of means who, having had 
all provisions of life made for them, become idle and indulge 
in pleasures which eventually lead to misery far deeper than 
the pain which any poverty-stricken mortal has yet experi- 
enced. 

METCALF— The social evil? Abolish that? We might 
just as well try to teach elephants how to knit. 

TEMPLETON — I am not referring to the destruction of 
the full-grown weeds ; it is the seed that should be destroyed. 

METCALF— The seed? 

TEMPLETON — Yes; and we need not wander far to 
find it. It is here — here in our midst — where the seed of 



THE ICE LENS 55 

most of that misery is planted. It is here — 'here at this great 
American university where the Well-to-do send their sons. 

METCALF — It sounds like a sweeping statement. 

TEMPLETON — But it is as true as it is unfortunate. 
If a man has lived a clean and moral life in college, he will 
continue to live it the rest of his days. But he is just at 
that age when it is only too easy for him to fall into the 
jaws of corruption by taking one careless step, and in conse- 
quence he is rendered unfit for his work not only in college 
but in life after graduation. 

METCALF — (sitting doivn again) You interest me ; con- 
tinue. 

TEMPLETON — The appetites developed in youth linger 
and grow more intense. The man becomes coarse and evil- 
minded ; he is intoxicated by the sight of a bottle ; he com- 
mits adultery when he looks at a woman ; he ruins the happi- 
ness of his family by urging his son to follow his own foot- 
steps and by treating his wife and his daughter with the same 
disrespect as the wanton on whom he feeds. 

METCALF — What has started you on this path? Have 
you been playing the spy and making discoveries ? 

TEMPLETON— No, Metcalf; I am not "unearthing 
wickedness with a spade." It isn't necessary to dig for hid- 
den evidence. When the ruddy face of youth grows pale 
and thin, when the eyes grow dull and slimy, when the hand 
trembles — isn't that evidence enough? 

METCALF — You do observe, don't you ? 

TEMPLETON — (sitting) Yes; you are too deeply con- 
cerned with your own petty misfortunes to notice this. But 
here, Metcalf, is real misfortune which brings grief to the 
heart of God Himself. 

METCALF — Do you lay all the blame on the students ? 

TEMPLETON— No ; I shall say this in their defense : 
they are still children. Our student body isn't very far in 
advance of a kindergarten. Like children, they lack minds 



56 THE ICE LENS 

of their own and think they must imitate others in their 
habits ; hke children, they will pick up almost anything off 
the street; like children, they never know when they have 
had enough. 

METCALF — Each one of them should be tied to a nurse's 
apron string. 

TEMPLETON — It should concern the parent rather than 
the nurse. The fact that we are sending our sons away to 
college and placing their discipline in their own hands is no 
matter for pride and elation. We are simply starting them 
out on that unfamiliar road which soon divides — the one way 
leading to service, righteousness and glory; the other to 
indolence, corruption and ruin. 

METCALF — You mean the parent sees and hears only 
the brighter side of the son's college career ? 

TEMPLETON — Fathers who have gone through the 
same experience take pride in exposing their sons to the 
tempting pleasures which they believe make the man, but 
mothers, sisters and sweethearts know nothing of these 
darker events, and picture the young men only as heroes of 
wisdom and virtue. They are blind, blind, blind. 

METCALF — Perhaps it is better so. Would you have 
them burdened with all the worry such knowledge would 
inevitably bring? 

TEMPLETON — It would not bring worry ; it would fan 
and brighten the flame of maternal love which is gradually 
being extinguished by the fads and follies of modern society. 
Mothers lose track of their boys too soon ; the boys are not 
so likely to do wrong if they think their mothers know of it. 

METCALF — Well, aren't college morals occasionally 
attacked in our newspapers and periodicals ? 

TEMPLETON — And immediately denied or made light 
of in a subsequent issue. 

METCALF— By whom? 

TEMPLETON — By various persons. Sometimes by uni- 



THE ICE LENS 57 

versity officials who are striving to uphold either falsely or 
ignorantly the moral standing of their institution ; sometimes 
by good-natured optimists who resent the exposure of evil; 
again by individuals who themselves are victims of immor- 
ality, and who fear a further publication of their own deeds. 

METCALF — And others there are, I presume — scores of 
them — who remain in silence but know only too well the 
hidden truth. 

TEMPLETON — One way of preventing discord is not to 
play on our pipes, but I fail to see how we extol our Alma 
Mater by trying to conceal the deadly elements which are 
tending to undermine her foundation. There must be a re- 
form. I long for it; I crave for it. fTempleton rises and 
paces the floor restlessly.) 

METCALF — Why do you let it prey on you? Are you 
responsible for the sins of others? 

TEMPLETON— Yes ; I am— at least, when I feel that I 
have done nothing to try to prevent them. 

METCALF — It's no affair of yours ; let them go to the 
dogs if they wish to. 

TEMPLETON— If they wish to? Do you believe these 
men are actually willing to throw their lives away? Far 
from it. There is a better self in every one of them which 
is crying out for help and strength, and no man who would 
be a Christian can ignore it and pass by them on the other 
side. 

METCALF — Isn't there a God to answer their cries ? 

TEMPLETON — Omnipotent as He is, we expect too 
much of God alone. He needs our co-operation. He gives 
us the use of His own power, but we fail to exercise it, and 
we sit with folded hands waiting for adjustment and prog- 
ress in exchange for mere confidence devoid of individual 
exertion. It is true, Metcalf, that this reform must come 
mainly through the students themselves, but college admin- 
istration can do its share. 



58 THE ICE LENS 

METCALF — Yes ; I believe you are right after all. It is 
high time we unbend our knees to research idols and intel- 
lectual poUiwogs, and turn our attention to the needs of the 
undergraduate for whom — all said and done — a university 
really exists. 

TEMPLETON — We are graduating from our institution 
too many men who are undeserving of the degree we confer 
upon them. A large number of them manage to get through 
somehow or other, and enter their life's work with false 
insignia on their extended chests. The real scholar who has 
earned his laurel by consistent study has gained nothing over 
him who has usurped it by trickery. 

METCALF — Education nowadays is little more than a 
farce; we are expected to make scholars out of men whose 
ambitions are no higher than toadstools. I propose that we 
confer two degrees : one to reward attainment in scholar- 
ship — call it the A. B., indicating "Ambitious Benjamin;" 
the other for social equipment — ^the B. A., indicating "Brag- 
ging Archie." 

TEMPLETON — What we really need is more learning 
and less display : we crowd our campus with stately buildings 
which serve rather for ornament than for education ; we 
emblazon our faculty with the names of renowned men 
whom our students never meet; we adjust our requirements 
so as to graduate an ostentatiously large number, in conse- 
quence of which the quality is lowered. 

METCALF — True enough. A university should be some- 
thing more than a set of self-centered specialists assembled 
on a square mile of beautiful architecture where young men 
are trained to pass four years of recreation with three ounces 
of knowledge. 

TEMPLETON — Its one great purpose should be the 
molding of upright citizens for the future, but this service 
can never be rendered until we raise the standard of scholar- 
ship. 



THE ICE LENS 59 

METCALF — That is, you hold that by raising the stand- 
ard of scholarship, we will raise the moral standard as well. 

TEMPLETON — Yes ; the average man will do no more 
than our low standard demands of him. With surplus time 
on his hands, he naturally seeks pastime, and alas ! he finds it 
in vice. Rectitude is worth more than all of Newton, Vergil 
and Euclid put together, but these may well be a means to 
that end by replacing unhealthful thought in the mind of 
youth. 

METCALF — I fear we should have a task suppressing in 
youth "The Call of the Wild." 

TEMPLETON— That should not be our intention. A 
weak set of humans we would be had we neither spirit nor 
appetite, for it is our very struggle to purify and limit these 
that makes us strong and lifts us above the animal level. 

METCALF — It will take something more startling than 
Euclid to agitate such a struggle. 

TEMPLETON — I am not claiming it will result from 
study alone. We must take hold of the man and stir up 
the better self which has stagnated in the recesses of his 
soul. He needs a brother to take his hand, to lead him out 
into the light where he can see with his own eyes the animal 
which grovels behind him in the darkness — a coarse inhuman 
brute living selfishly and sluggishly on the hoard of others, 
stealing what little it has acquired for itself only by cunning 
and concealment, everlastingly consuming weeds, quaffing 
more than its body can hold, and reveling like a glutton over 
human flesh. Were such habits intended for man, they 
would not result in defeat, misery, disease and crime. But 
to give up the beast, to use the reason and will which is given 
to man alone, to grasp the higher purpose in life for the bet- 
terment of ourselves and our fellowmen, to serve in the pro- 
motion of decency, wisdom, justice and righteousness; in a 
word, to serve God — that is victory, that is happiness, that 
is life. 



60 THE ICE LENS 

METCALF — You are enthusiastic ; but how can this Hght 
be given to the many who need it ? 

TEMPLETON — I am trying to shed it by writing a play. 

METCALF — But at the same time, you are exposing that 
which may bring anguish to many an innocent heart which 
is now apparently happy. 

TEMPLETON — Temporary sorrow is the bud which 
blossoms into true happiness. There is no real happiness in 
the deferment of grief. This evil, like the poisonous plant 
in the depths of the forest, will thrive and spread until it is 
brought out into the sunlight of an open meadow. However 
intense the pain, I, seemingly co/tZ-hearted, shall cut deep 
with the knife of truth, bring the poison to the surface, and 
then heal the wound with the balm of love. 

METCALF — Your task requires courage. Have you no 
fear? (He rises.) 

TEMPLETON— Fear ! Why should I hesitate to do 
what is right and necessary ? Is it not my very love for my 
university that prompts me to show that her morals should 
be and will be rectified, that her standards must be elevated ? 
Is it not the fraternal devotion in my aching heart that com- 
pels me to arouse among her students a hatred for all that is 
wrong, and a greater respect for themselves, their intimates, 
their Alma Mater and their God ? Why should I fear to act 
on that which He has inspired within me? (He points to 
the psalm above his bed.) "He shall cover thee with His 
feathers and under His wings shalt thou trust; His truth 
shall be thy shield and buckler." 

METCALF — But men there are so destitute of character 
that they will not admit their own faults, and, when their acts 
are plainly and justly made known by others, they will hum 
with revenge ; and that revenge may result in your downfall. 

TEMPLETON — (slowly and clearly) It is possible to 
make from ice a lens which will project images with suf- 
ficient magnification to show clearly many a defect unob- 



THE ICE LENS 61 

served in the original by the ordinary eye. Rays of sunlight, 
passing through this lens, can be so focused as to kindle a 
fire, — a fire which may destroy all the defects, — although the 
lens itself is left unmelted and whole. 

METCALF — (taking his hook and his hat) I see you 
have gone into it heart and soul. (He grasps Templeton's 
hand.) Good night, and God be with you. 

(Metcalf leaves the room, closing the door softly behind 

him. 
Templeton stands in silence for a few moments. Then he 
removes his robe, takes his night clothes from the chif- 
fonier, places them on his bed, and turns out both lights 
in his room,. 
The front door of the house is heard opening and closing 
with a bang. There is a noise due to two men staggering 
up the stairs. The door to Adder's room is opened 
violently, and he staggers in, badly under the influence 
of liquor — his cap missing, his hair disarranged, the 
front of his dress shirt open. DePeyster follows him, 
closing the door noiselessly. Adder discards his coats 
on the floor, and manages to reach the fireplace, where 
he accidentally knocks a few bottles from, the shelf, 
sending them to the hearth with a crash.) 
ADDER — (sinking into the Morris chair) Thank stars! 
We are back, Chaunce. That was the closest shave I ever 
had, but I can always depend on you, old pal, to seeing me 
home. You're a good fellow, Chaunce ; you're a damn good 
fellow. And you were a damn lucky fellow to know about 
that back window. I almost broke my neck when I jumped 
to the pavement. 

DePEYSTER — I wonder what's become of Lulu? 

ADDER — Don't worry about Lulu. I guess this isn't the 

first raid she's been in ; it's an old game with her. Hell ! I 

wish the little devil were here to put me to bed. (He rips 

off his dress shirt, and then removes his shoes, throwing 



63 THE ICE LENS 

them noisily across the floor.) Can you blame me, Chaunce ? 
Can you ? 

DePEYSTER — Nay, nay ; I say she's a pippin. I never 
shall forget her elbows. 

ADDER — Cut out the elbows, and get my pajamas; will 
you? (DePeyster carefully feels his way into the bedroom. 
Adder rises and approaches Psyche, first eyeing her with 
suspicion and then embracing the statue vulgarly.) Oh, you 
Lulu ; oh, you Lulu. (He carries the statute across the room 
and falls with it in his arms upon the couch. DePeyster 
returns with a pair of brilliantly-striped silk pajamas.) Come 
kiss me good night, Chaunce. 
DePEYSTER— Yes, Addy dear. 

ADDER — And come around later; I may want you to 
hold my head. 

DePEYSTER — (covering him zvith the pajam,as and giv- 
ing him, an audible kiss) Pleasant dreams. 
ADDER— Good night, old pal. 

(DePeyster staggers to the bedroom door, and, turning 
the switch there, he extinguishes all the lights and enters 
the bedroom. Adder, left to him,self, soon commences 
to snore beastlike on the couch. 
Templeton, sensitive to all that has happened, lights the 
gaslamp in his room and stands thoughtfully at the side 
of his desk in his white night clothes. The expression 
on his face reveals a profound com,passion for the 
transgressor.) 
ADDER — (talking in his sleep]) Lulu, you damn little 
witch ! 

(The strains of "Bright College Year^' are heard from 
the band in the distance. The countenance of Temple- 
ton, inspired by the music, changes suddenly to one sig- 
nificant of determination and courage. He seises his 
pen, and, trembling with enthusiasm, he bends over his 
desk and writes with renewed vigor. 



THE ICE LENS 63 

Adder, in his drunken stupor, remains unconscious of the 
approaching tumult. Just as the music, swelling in 
grandeur, reaches the final strain, — "For God, For 
Country and For Yale," — the procession passes under 
the window in his room, and a patch of brilliant red light 
falls across the large banner bearing that inscription.) 



ACT II 

(The sunlight passes through.) 



ACT II 

The scene is the same as in Act I. The time is the evening 
of the following day. 

Adder's room is again in order. The folding chairs have 
been rem,oved, and the broken glass from the bottles has 
been swept away. But all the decorations, including one 
pink stocking on the dome, are still up. 

DePeyster, with his head in a bandage and his body in a 
very "loud" robe, sits toasting in the Morris chair before 
a crackling fire. He is alone with ''Psyche," who stands 
before him buttoned up in his own black coat, which 
covers her anatom,y from the waist to the knee. 

Templeton's room is vacant, but the electric wall light is 
on; the gaslam.p on the desk is not burning. 

DePEYSTER — (calling) Jupiter. . . .Jupiter. . . .Jupiter. 
(There is no response.) Confound his black soul ; he's never 
here when I want him. 

(Jupiter slips in on tiptoe.) 

JUPITER — I begs yah pardon, sah. Did I hear yah 
callin' me, or did I just imagine it? 

DePEYSTER — You never hear anything. Where in the 
devil have you been ? 

JUPITER — I's been shinin' shoes, sah. 

DePEYSTER — Send up some heat; the house is like a 
refrigerator. I had to build a fire myself. I soiled my 
hands fearfully and almost broke my spine carrying the logs. 
It's no work for a gentleman — ^in particular, when he's sick. 
You had better stay on your job. If you don't fire that fur- 
nace, we'll have to fire you. When I awoke this morning, 
my feet were like ice. 



68 THE ICE LENS 

JUPITER — Why didn't yah git up, sah, and walk around 
a bit — yah might 'ave stoved yah toe. 

DePEYSTER — No joking. Don't make sport of my com- 
plaints ; I'm sick as a cat. Hand me my pipe and Mr. 
Adder's tobacco jar. (Jupiter passes him the articles from 
the desk.) I've got such a nasty taste in my mouth. 

JUPITER— Dark brown? 

DePEYSTER — (filling his pipe) Yes ; ever had it ? 

JUPITER — It's my natural color, sah. 

DePEYSTER — (passing him the jar) Here, take this ; it 
annoys me. 

JUPITER — (placing it on the desk) You mean it jars you. 

DePEYSTER— Shut up ! Got a match ? 

JUPITER — (getting one from his pocket) Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER — Strike it for me; I'm too weak. 

JUPITER — (holding the flaming match over his pipe) 
Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER — That's all ; you may go now. You annoy 
me. 

JUPITER — (leaving) Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER— Jupiter. 

JUPITER — (returning) Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER — I'm as hungry as a pup; go over to 
Reilly's and get me a dog. 

JUPITER— Five cents, sah. 

DePEYSTER— Have it charged. 

JUPITER— With mustard, sah? 

DePEYSTER— No ; with gunpowder. 

JUPITER— f/^az^m^j Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER— Jupiter. 

JUPITER — (returning) Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER — On your way, stop at the barber shop and 
tell Gusty to come over and shave me. 

JUPITER— f/^awMgrj Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER— Jupiter. 



THE ICE LENS «9 

JUPITER — (returning) Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER— And drop in the drug store, and get two 
of Lydia Pinkham's Pills. 

]\JVIT¥.K— (leaving) Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER— ffo himself) Poor Jupiter ! Silly ass ! 

JJJVIT^'R.— (returning) Yes, sah. 

DePEYSTER— Why in the devil don't you go instead of 
always coming back ? 

JUPITER — Will I have dem pills charged too ? 

DePEYSTER— ("aw^n'/y; Yes, sah. 

JUPITER— With gunpowder? 

(Jupiter, laughing aloud heartily, leaves the room. De- 
Peyster rises and walks toward the graphophone.) 

DePEYSTER— Oh, such a spinning headache! (He 
starts the graphophone to playing a noisy one-step, and then 
returns to his chair. After a while the door hell rings. It 
rings a second time, long and loud.) Some people have no 
consideration for the sick. 

(The laundry man appears in the doorway. He raps on 
the door frame. It is not heeded. He raps a second 
time.) 

BeFEYSTER— (feebly) Come in. 

MAN— (entering) Is this Mr. DePeyster ? 

DePEYSTER — (neither rising nor turning about) No; 
he's out of town. 

MAN — Would you mind giving him this bill when he 

returns ? 

DePEYSTER— Gladly ! just leave it on the desk. 
MAN — Thank you. (He does so and walks out.) 
( DePeyster rises, walks to the desk, picks up the bill, and, 
without having looked at it, he tears it up, and throws 
the scraps into the wastebasket. The laundry man 
returns.) 
MAN — I'm sorry, but I gave you the wrong bill. It was 
Mr. Adder's. May I trouble you to hand it back ? 



70 THE ICE LENS 

DePEYSTER — (excitedly) Oh, that's all right ; he rooms 
here too, and I'll see that he gets it. 

MAN — ^But there's a mistake — I forgot to add last 
month's account. 

DePEYSTER — Never mind doing that. What's the total ? 
I'm his roommate ; I might just as well pay the entire charge 
for him. 

MAN — (opening his memorandum) 2.67. 

DePEYSTER — I'll write out a check. (He sits down at 
the desk with a business-like air, opens the drawer, produces 
a check book, writes with a flourish, tears out a leaf, and 
hands it to the agent.) 

MAN — (looking over the check) Good signature, Mr. De- 
Peyster; might just as well make out another one — ^your bill 
is 17.32. (A sheepish look appears on DePeyster's face. He 
writes a second check. The agent takes it, and places the 
receipted bill on the desk.) Thanks. Good evening, Sir. 

(The man walks out.) 

DePEYSTER — (rising and slamming the door after him) 
Damn ! (He stops the grapho phone abruptly, walks to the 
desk and picks up the telephone in anger.) Chestnut 23, . . . 
Hello. . . .hello. . . .Is this Mr. Hunter's residence?. . . . (then 
all in one breath) .... Tell Mrs. Hunter this is the fishman, 
and he can't take her to the opera until the beginning of next 
month because he has overdrawn his allowance. (He drops 
the telephone noisily, throws himself into the Morris chair 
and smokes his pipe in quick short puffs.) 

(Adder enters in the best of spirits. He tosses his cap and 
book on the couch.) 

ADDER — Well, old pal, how are you feeling ? 

DePEYSTER— ("zoxY/i a snarl) Rotten. 

ADDER— So bad as all that? 

DePEYSTER — Yes ; my head's aching like sixty, and my 
backbone's almost killing me. 

ADDER — Oh hell ! you should have gone to Vassar. 



THE ICE LENS 71 

DePEYSTER — What makes you so crabbed? Did you 
flunk your exam? 

ADDER — Flunk ! well I guess not. Jeff Lyon sat right in 
front of me, and when he finished his paper I jerked his coat 
tail and pointed to my f rat pin. He did his duty, and passed 
back a copy of all the answers. The supervisor snored 
through the wliole examination ; I had to wake him up when 
I handed him my paper. 

DePEYSTER — Anything on about the lamp-post prob- 
lem? 

ADDER — Not a damn ; the nearest thing to it was about 
a schooner sailing homeward. 

DePEYSTER — Could you answer it ? 

ADDER — I swallowed it whole. 

DePEYSTER — Then you feel sure you passed ? 

ADDER— Without a doubt. 

DePEYSTER — And you won't be dropped ? 

ADDER — Nay, nay. (He dances happily about the 
room.) There are two ways to get through college, 
Chaunce ; one is to paddle your own canoe, and the other 
is to have someone paddle it for you. You'd be surprised to 
know the number of bone heads floating about the country 
with college degrees dangling from the ends of their tongues. 
Look at yourself for example — repeating your freshman year 
for the third time. You should have been kicked out of this 
place before you ever got in. But you'll graduate; I'll bet 
my head on it. Why the faculty will get so damned tired 
of you hanging around that they'll give you your sheepskin 
and tell you to beat it. 

DePEYSTER — And you with all your brains won't get 
anything better. 

ADDER — A degree no longer stands for brains; it has 
become an essential part of every gentleman's wardrobe just 
like a patent-leather pump or an English walking-stick. A 
fellow's a damn fool to study his head ofif when he can get 



n THE ICE LENS 

one without it. To hell with books ! (He snatches his book 
from the couch, tears out the leaves, and tosses them into the 
fire.) Me for a jolly good time. Seen the evening paper? 
(He removes a newspaper from his coat pocket.) Great 
write-up about the raid last night — front page — large red 
letters — ^but no names given. 

DePEYSTER — Lucky for you, old man. You would 
have had a fine time adjusting matters with Jeanette. 

ADDER — Little Innocence — she'll never know a word 
about it. 

DePEYSTER — Don't be too sure. Remember her brother 
— Jefferson — lives right here with us under the same roof. 
. ADDER — What of it? Do you think he's going to 
squeal ? 

DePEYSTER — There's no telling what he might let slip 
from his lips. He is such an ass ; he annoys me. 

ADDER — I know damn well he's a sad bird, but I had 
good reasons for making him a member of our fraternity. 
In the first place he belongs to one of the first families of 
the state, and therefore his election to our frat gives us all a 
social pull ; in the second place, by doing this, I myself get a 
better stand-in with his sister Jeanette — ^the most popular 
debutante in town ; in the third place he's under pledge as a 
good fellow not to let out the oflf-color doings of any of his 
brethren. So you see, Chaunce, I've got him just where I 
want him — I can do anything I damn please, and Jeanette 
never knows it and thinks just as much of me as ever. 

DePEYSTER — Does Jefferson know about our lark last 
night ? 

ADDER — No, but I'm going to tell him the whole thing 
from beginning to end. 

DePEYSTER— I think you're a fool to do it. 

ADDER — You're showing the wrong spirit, DePeyster. 
Aren't we all united ? Isn't it agreed there shall be no secrets 
among us ? If we expect Jeff to be our pal, it's up to us to 



THE ICE LENS 73 

be his. I may be a cheat when it comes to an exam, or I 
may be false to the girl, but this much I swear: To my 
dying day I'll be loyal to my f rat. 

DePEYSTER — Well, when you tell him, please don't 
mention my name in the matter. My mother would turn 
over and die if she were ever to find out that her darling 
Chauncey as much as looked at a chorus girl. I was con- 
sidered the most upright man in my home town, and the first 
time I left for college Mamma placed a Bible under my arm. 

ADDER — She was trying to make a saint of you. 

DePEYSTER — She used to preach to me for hours, and 
I always promised to be a very, very good boy. • 

ADDER — Thank heavens, my mother never took such a 
foolish interest in me. She is head over heels in society ; 
president of The Women's Club, vice-president of The 
Mother's Club, secretary of The Home for Neglected Chil- 
dren, and so forth. She writes articles on The Care of 
French Poodles. Has four of them at home: (He counts 
them on his fingers.) Flosette, Peepo, Melisande and Napo- 
leon. Feeds them on marshmallows and certified milk; 
bathes them in eau de Cologne. Some class to mother ! As 
to my old man, we've gone out together on many a lark with 
something ten times as spicy as Lulu. Parent's up to date — 
eh ! And after all, what good has your mother's Bible done ? 

DePEYSTER — I sold it for cigarette money. 

ADDER— Holy smoke ! 

DePEYSTER — A week later, Mother wrote and asked 
me if I had found the five-dollar bill she had placed opposite 
the ten commandments in the fifth book of Moses. 

ADDER^— Rather expensive cigarettes — eh ? 

DePEYSTER— I had to tell her I lost Bible and all. 

ADDER — What was the answer ? 

DePEYSTER— Another Bible. 

ADDER — Any money in it ? 

DePEYSTER — As soon as it arrived I turned over every 



74 THE ICE LENS 

page from Genesis to Revelation, and didn't find a damn 
cent, and what was worse — I couldn't even sell this one. 

ADDER— How's that ? 

DePEYSTER — There it is in the book case. Look what's 
stamped all over the cover in gold. 

(Adder walks to the hook case, finds the Bible and blows 
a cloud of dust from it.) 

ADDER — (reading the inscription on the cover) To 
Saintly Chauncey DePeyster from the Y. M. C. A. of 
Oswego. 

DePEYSTER — (rising and pacing up and down the floor) 
They must not find out. They dare not find it out — their 
saintly Chauncey patting the elbows of a chorus lady ! The 
very thought annoys me. 

ADDER — (throwing the Bible down on the desk) Hell ! 
you're worse than an old woman — they are always taking 
their medicine before they are sick. 

DePEYSTER — Believe me : Jefferson Lyon cannot be 
trusted. He will gossip it everywhere, and even tell the 
heathens about it when he commences his crusade in China. 
Addy dear, you've made me sicker than ever. Oh ! . . . . 
(DePeyster throws himself upon the couch.) 

(Gusty — the little fat and immaculate German barber — 
enters in slippered feet. He carries a long pipe in his 
mouth and a satchel in his hand.) 

GUSTY — Ver is it vat vants a shave? 

ADDER — (pointing to the couch) The Dying Gladiator. 

(Adder retires to the bedroom.) 

GUSTY — (opening his satchel on the desk and getting 
out his razor, shaving soap, brush, towel, etc.) Kome along, 
Hercules. 

DePEYSTER — (rising) I think Fll have to postpone it,. 
Gusty. Pve got a fearful headache, and Fm a nervous 
wreck. Pm afraid you'll cut me. 

GUSTY — (taking off his coat and rolling up his shirt 



THE ICE LENS 75 

sleeves) Dat's all right ; I vas got a saf-e-ty razor to use on 
your beard. Your head vill feel a lots better after I takes 
it off. 

DePEYSTER — (sitting in the Morris chair where Gusty 
prepares him by pinning a towel about his neck) Now 
remember, Gusty, my skin is soft and sensitive, and I don't 
want the barber's itch. 

GUSTY — (making a lather on DePeyster's face, and dab- 
bing his brush back and forward as though he were painting 
the side of a house) Don't verry about dat; I mix every 
man's ladder on his own individual mug. 

(Jupiter enters with small packages.) 

JUPITER — Here am yah dog sandwidge and yah pills, 
Mr. DePeyster. 

DePEYSTER — Bring it quick; I am almost famished. 
And get me a glass of water. 

(Jupiter hands him the sandwich and then enters the bed- 
room. DePeyster devours it ravenously, his lower jaw 
szuinging through a large amplitude. He eats lather 
and all.) 

GUSTY — Ven your jaws goes up and down like a pump 
handle, how do you exsphect me to amputate your fringe ? 

DePEYSTER— I'll be through directly. Gusty. You 
might sit down and read a little while; there's my Bible on 
the desk. 

GUSTY — Make hurry up ; I vas got no time to vait. Ach 
Himmel! I must make more ladder on your face. You seem 
to like vipped cream served mit your dog. 

(Gusty re-lathers DePeyster's face. Jupiter returns with 
a glass of water, places it on the desk with the pills, and 
then goes out into the hall. Gusty applies the razor.) 

DePEYSTER— Ouch ! 

GUSTY — Vat's da matter? Is dis razor a little bit too 
much not sharp enough ? 

DePEYSTER— It's got a pull. 



76 THE ICE LENS 

GUSTY — Sure ding — it's a Gillette. Say, you vas had da 
chicken pox once, nicht wahrf 

DePEYSTER — How do you know? 

GUSTY — It played da deuce on your face — it left two 
spots. 

DePEYSTER— Cut it out, Gusty ; I don't feel like laugh- 
ing. Anyhow, your jokes are far-fetched. 

GUSTY — Far-fetched? I found dat one right here under 
your nose. You vant a massawtch ? 

DePEYSTER— No ; they annoy me. 

GUSTY— Hair cut? 

DePEYSTER — No ; the hairs get under my collar and 
tickle my :back. 

GUSTY— Shampoo? 

DePEYSTER — No ; the soap suds might get into my eyes. 

GUST Y— Dandruff treatment ? 

DePEYSTER— No ; I detest the smell of it. 

GUSTY — You need one — your hair has had a falling-out- 
ness. You vill be bald in t'ree years. Ach Gott! dann was 
fur ein Bild ! 

DePEYSTER — Stop talking French ; I never took it — I 
specialized in German. 

GUSTY — You collitch boys know about as much German 
as a jackass. 

DePEYSTER — It would be foolish to learn more than 
my position in life demands. 

(Gusty, laughing to himself, enters the bedroom. De- 
Peyster rises, walks to the desk, swallows the pills, and 
then takes a drink of water.) 

DePEYSTER — God bless Lydia Pinkham ; I'm going to 
send her a testimonial. 

(He returns to the Morris chair. Gusty enters with a 
steaming towel. He wraps it around DePeyster's head, 
covering his face completely. Then he removes a watch 
from DePeyster's pocket and puts it into his own.) 



THE ICE LENS 77 

GUSTY — (aside) Ein Ingersol, aber besser wie nichts. 
(He removes the towel.) Is der nudding else I can relief 
you of ? 

DePEYSTER— No ; that will be all for to-night, Gusty. 
I'll pay you next week. 

GUSTY — (packing his supplies back into his satchel, and 
pulling on his cap and coat) Dat's all right. I am used to 
doing vork on tick, but I vill keep a vatch on you. Adieu. 

(He walks to the door singing: 

"Ich bin der Doctor Eisenbart — 
Zwill-ie-will-ie-wick-um-BU M ." 
After the final "BUM," he turns about, quickly puts his 
hand to his nose, and then disappears.) 

DePEYSTER — (remaining in his chair and calling to 
Adder in the bedroom,) Addy dear, I'm feeling just as bad as 
ever. Would you mind bringing me my black tie and a clean 
collar ? And one of my handkerchiefs with a pink monogram ? 

ADDER — (from within) All right, Grandma. Anything 
else? 

DePEYSTER— My derby. 

ADDER — What about your corset cover? 

DePEYSTER — (m^ournfully) Please don't make sport of 
me. I feel as though I'm going to die. 

(Adder enters and showers the called-for articles of ap- 
parel over DePeyster. He himself wears a black suit 
and a derby.) 

ADDER — ^Just where does it hurt you most. Darling? 

DePEYSTER— I am still sick over it. 

ADDER— Over what? 

DePEYSTER— The fact that you're going to tell Jeffer- 
son about our frolic. Perhaps you'll change your mind. 

ADDER — No ; I'll call him in now. (He goes to the door 
and calls.) Hello, Jeff ; drop in a moment on your way down. 
(to DePeyster) Jeff isn't going to be a half-bad fellow when 
we get through with him. 



78 THE ICE LENS 

DePEYSTER — Yes ; there's hope when one stops to con- 
sider the man you've made of me. 

(We meet Jefferson Lyon for the first time. He enters 
the door timidly. His fathers heartless description of 
him is not far from the truth. His deform,ity is pro- 
nounced; his face is thin and cadaverous, appearing all 
the more so on account of his black suit, tie and derby; 
his hands tremble, and his entire body occasionally 
undergoes a nervous twitch. Our hearts ache for him 
at once.) 

ADDER— Hello, Jeff ; how's the boy ? 

JEFFERSON — (removing his hat, and placing it on the 
desk) I'm feeling pretty fair. How are you? 

ADDER — Fine; but Chaunce has had a bad day of it. 

DePEYSTER — (putting on his collar and tie before the 
mirror over the mantelpiece) I thought I was going to die 
this morning, Jeff. I've been too ill to stand the strain of a 
recitation, but I'm strong enough to go with you all to-night. 

ADDER — Chaunce had one drink too many. 

DePEYSTER — I wasn't drunk, Jeff; I never get drunk. 
But all these fancy drinks make me deathly sick. 

ADDER — We were out on a lark last night, and Chaunce 
still has a hangover. We both had a hell of a good time, 
Jeff, with a chorus girl and the usual accessories that go 
therewith. The grand climax of the evening was a police 
raid, but we managed to skin out. We are going to take you 
with us the next time, Jeff. 

JEFFERSON— I would rather not go, Adder. 

ADDER— Why? 

JEFFERSON— I think it's immoral. 

ADDER — Rats, Jeff ! you'll have to get over that. There 
isn't a fellow in the house who doesn't take a drink now and 
then, except you. You owe it to us and to yourself. Learn 
to be a good fellow. Forget your grouch. 

DePEYSTER— Yes ; be manly. 



THE ICE LENS 79 

JEFFERSON — I do not wish to be disagreeable at any 
time, and I will gladly retire from the crowd when you start 
your carousals. But it isn't the drink so much as the girl 
that I am referring to now. 

ADDER— In what way, Jeff? 

JEFFERSON — I believe you and my sister — ^Jeanette 
— are on more than friendly terms these days. I know 
Jeanette is taking you seriously. Do you think you are treat- 
ing her with fairness? 

ADDER— Yes. 

JEFFERSON — Then she knows aibout these occurrences ? 

ADDER— No; decidedly not. 

JEFFERSON— Don't you think she should know? 

DePEYSTER — (removing his black coat from the statue 
of Psyche) How could a gentleman be expected to disclose 
such a thing to a perfectly respectable girl ? (He puts on his 
coat and hat and sits on the arm of the chair.) 

JEFFERSON — ^Aren't you going to tell her, Adder ? 

ADDER— No. 

JEFFERSON— Would you rather I would tell her? 

ADDER — (quickly) You had better not, Jeff. 

JEFFERSON— Why not ? As her brother it is my duty 
to do so. 

ADDER — ^As our brother it is your duty to keep quiet. 
Remember your pledge. You're not going back on your 
word, are you ? 

JEFFERSON — Do you think I shall let my sister step 
into an unhappy future when I can prevent it? 

ADDER — Unhappy future! Hell! don't make it so 
damned serious. It's part of every fellow's college life; 
you're not human like the rest of us. 

JEFFERSON — I'm sorry, Adder, but I simply cannot see 
my sister misled. 

ADDER — (revengefully) Well, just squeal, and I'll make 
it hot for you. 



80 THE ICE LENS 

JEFFERSON^How ? 

ADDER — What about that help you gave me on the 
exam to-day? 

JEFFERSON — You forced me to do it. I didn't want 
to, but you kept on whispering and pulling my coat and jab- 
bing your pencil into my back until you had me almost 
crazy, and I passed back my paper only to get relief. 

ADDER — That's all right ; whether I asked you for it or 
not, you did it all the same, and the man who gives informa- 
tion is considered in the same light as the man who gets it 
— ^both are fired from the school. (He folds his arms ) 
Now what are you going to do ? 

JEFFERSON— What do you mean? 

ADDER — I mean that if you squeal to Jeanette on me, 
I'll squeal to the faculty on you. It's only a fair game, Jeff. 

JEFFERSON — But you also would be expelled ? 

ADDER — I don't give a damn. It's not going to harm 
me, but it's a hell of a fine reputation for a man who's going 
into the ministry. 

DePEYSTER— Lord ! I should say so. 

JEFFERSON — You don't mean you would ruin my 
future ? 

ADDER — Yes, and I want your answer right quick on 
this matter between Jeanette and me. I want your promise 
that you'll keep it dark. 

(DePeyster walks to the window and pulls down the 
shade.) 

JEFFERSON — You want me to let my sister go on 
blindly in her relation to you? 

ADDER — Yes, or consider yourself expelled from the 
university. 

JEFFERSON— My God, man, you wouldn't do that, 
would you ? 

ADDER — It's easy enough for you to prevent it. 

JEFFERSON — ^You think it is easy for me to lie? 



THE ICE LENS 81 

ADDER — You're not lying; you're simply doing me a 
good turn. 

JEFFERSON— I cannot, Adder ; my God, I cannot. 

ADDER— Very well, we'll call it settled ; I'll hand in the 
report to-morrow. 

JEFFERSON— No, wait 

ADDER — (seizing his hand and placing it on DePeyster's 
Bible) Good ! We are going to have your promise. Here ; 
swear by this Bible that you're not going to tell. (He re- 
moves his derby.) 

JEFFERSON — (holding up his hand reluctantly) My 
God, my God, I. . . . (He falters and falls to the floor in a 
faint.) 

ADDER — (stooping over him) Get the brandy bottle, 
Chaunce; he has fainted. (DePeyster opens a secret panel 
in the desk. He produces a bottle and a glass, fills the latter, 
and passes it to Adder, who places it to Jefferson's lips, 
forcing him to drink. He comes to. Adder helps him up, 
leading him, to the couch.) There, old man ; you're all right 
again. Lie down and rest a while. You needn't go with us 
to-night if you don't feel like it. I'll go down and unlatch 
the front door, and if you need attention just call for the 
doctor on the telephone. Tell him the front door is unlocked, 
and to walk right in. 

(The door to Adder's room and the door to Templeton's 
room open simultaneously. Adder and DePeyster pass 
out, closing the door upon Jefferson, who is left alone 
on the couch. Templeton enters his own room,, leaving 
the door open. He removes his overcoat and felt hat, 
places them on his bed, and then sinks into the large 
chair, where he is soon lost in meditation. Jefferson 
rises from, the couch.) 

JEFFERSON — What kind of men are these I live with? 
They have no respect for God or truth. They even try to 
force lies from me. (He places his hand to his throat, and 



82 THE ICE LENS 

coughs lightly.) And when I refused, they drugged me. 
(His mind, not any too strong, gives way to hallucination.) 
Yes ; they've drugged me. I know it. I know they have, and 
they've left me here alone to die. (He staggers to the desk 
and seizes the telephone.) Greenwood — 3413 .... Hello .... 
Hello. ... It is you, Jeanette. This is Jefferson. . . . Send me 
help ; quick, Jeanette !....! have been drugged, poisoned 
.... I am here alone at the dormitory in Mr. Adder's room 
— Mr. Adder's room. Send me help. Quick ! (He drops 
the telephone, and, supporting himself on the desk, he stares 
blankly into space.) 

(Adder and DePeyster return, closing the door.) 

ADDER — Well, Jeff, you're feeling all right again, I see. 

JEFFERSON — (covering his eyes with his hand) Some- 
what. 

ADDER — (patting him on the back) You're a good fel- 
low, Jeff ; you've sworn loyalty to us by the Bible. 

JEFFERSON — (quickly) No; I did not swear by the 
Bible. 

ADDER— Oh yes, you did. 

JEFFERSON— I was going to, but I didn't do it ; I know 
I didn't. 

ADDER — Sure you did. You just can't remember. You 
fainted while you were doing it, old pal — here's DePeyster 
to prove it. (He gives DePeyster the wink.) Isn't that 
right, Chaunce? 

DePEYSTER — Decidedly ; most decidedly. 

JEFFERSON — You mean to say I have sworn by the 
Bible that I will not show my sister her blind mistake ? Oh, 
how I hate myself ! (He covers his face with his hands, and 
then suddenly removes them.) No ; it was not Jefferson 
Lyon who swore. You drugged me — you made me do it 
while I was under influence — you know you did. 

ADDER — That was only the brandy we gave you to get 
you out of your faint. 



THE ICE LENS 83 

JEFFERSON— Brandy ! 

ADDER — Yes; you've had your first drink now, and 
you're the beginning of a good fellow. 

]'E¥¥R'RSO^— (terrified) Brandy! Brandy! 

ADDER — Yes ; brandy. It will do you good. 

JEFFERSON— Good? You don't understand, Adder; 
you have played the meanest of tricks. 

ADDER— Trick? 

JEFFERSON— Yes. Oh God, if you had only known it ! 
But you might have surmised it anyhow. You plainly saw 
my physical condition — my deformity — my defectiveness 
from head to foot. Do you think a fellow can be happy when 
he's so different — so horribly different from others ? When 
I was younger I never thought of my misfortune, but the 
awful reality pressed more and more heavily on my mind as 
I grew up. You can never know how I longed for relief — 
how I craved like a maniac to get away from the thoughts 
that were corroding my brain. I knew there was such a 
thing as liquor, of course, and I knew how persons, miser- 
able like myself, found relief in it. But I also knew the ter- 
rible consequences of its use. And yet my father was always 
offering it to me and trying to persuade me to drink. If he 
had only known how intensely I craved it. And what do 
you suppose it was that gave me the great courage to refuse ? 
It was God — it was God, I tell you. That's why I turned to 
Him — to God 1 That's why I wanted to become a missionary 
and work at His side to forget my wretched thoughts. I 
believed I had succeeded in tramping out the evil forever; 
but you — ^you have brought it back to me worse than before. 
I tell you plainly it's all up with me now — I see them before 
me already — mocking fiends tempting me to follow them — 
they have won me over — I, who intended to work for God 
and truth, have been transformed to a drunken and a lying 
fool. I have sworn to God Himself that I shall deceive my 
own sister. (He lowers his head in shame. Adder, refusing 



84 THE ICE LENS 

to take the raving seriously, shakes hands with DePeyster, 
hut Jefferson looks up in time to observe it.) Don't be 
too sure of your victory, Adder. When one of God's 
mediums is destroyed, He soon finds another one to herald 
the truth. 

(Templeton at this instant awakes from his reverie, and 
places his hand to his head, indicating an inspiration for 
his play.) 
Jeanette shall still be saved, but not by me. I have sur- 
rendered to temptation. I am yours — yours ; do with me 
what you will. 

ADDER — (placing the derby on Jefferson's head) Come 
along; it is just two minutes of eight. 

JEFFERSON — I will go anywhere to take my mind off 
these horrible thoughts ; I will do anything to forget my 
misery. 

ADDER — Then fill up the glasses, Chaunce, and we will 
all three drink to the health of our good old fraternity. (De- 
Peyster quickly gets two more glasses from, the secret panel 
and soon has them, filled and passed around. Adder holds 
his brandy aloft.) We're here to revel, smoke and drink — 
To hell with work that makes us think! 

(Adder and DePeyster watch Jefferson closely. He hesi- 
tates at first, and then, overcome by his desire, he lifts 
the glass m,adly to his lips, and drains it of its contents. 
Then Adder and DePeyster drink. Jefferson hurls the 
empty glass across the room into the fireplace, and bel- 
lows out a peal of maniacal laughter. Adder and De- 
Peyster mistake it for the laugh of goodfellowship, slap 
him on the back, and, taking him arm in arm, they leave 
the room. 
The town clock strikes eight. On the first stroke all the 
electric lights, including the wall light in Templeton's 
room, are extinguished. With the shade drawn in 
Adder's room, it is now in complete darkness except for 



THE ICE LENS 85 

a very dull glow on the hearth due to the dying fire. 
Templeton's room is but faintly lighted by the street 
light shining through his window. On the last stroke of 
the clock, the footsteps of the departing fraternity are 
heard as they march in strict tempo through the hall, 
down the steps, and up the street. The sound gradually 
dies away in the distance. 
There is a short period of absolute silence during which 
Templeton rem,ains seated. Then the flicker of a match 
in the darkness. He lights the gaslamp on his desk, and 
when he turns about, he sees Jeanette Lyon standing in 
his doorway. She is bare-headed, and wears a mag- 
nificent long ermine-fur coat. Her hairdress is extrem,e, 
a false addition projecting grotesquely in the rear and 
interlaced with a garland of dazzling jewels. Her usual 
attractiveness is even surpassed owing to the excitement 
which has flushed her cheeks.) 
JEANETTE — (nervously) Pardon me, sir, but this is the 
only room which seems to be lighted, so I am coming right 
in. My brother — Jefferson — ^has been drugged in this dor- 
mitory. 

TEMPLETON — You must be mistaken ; I think you are 
in the wrong house. 

JEANETTE — No; he called to me over the 'phone and 
said he was in Mr. Adder's room. 

TEMPLETON— It sounds queer, but we shall Hght a 
candle and see. 

(He lights the candle on his chiffonier, and crosses the hall, 
Jeanette following. They enter Adder's room,. As 
Templeton walks by the desk, he jerks down the pink 
stocking from, the dome before she has had a chance to 
observe it. He stuffs it into his coat pocket. They walk 
to the bedroom door, and both look in.) 
TEMPLETON — You see the room is vacant; your 
brother isn't here. 



86 THE ICE LENS 

JEANETTE — I cannot understand it. 

TEMPLETON — Very likely it was intended for a joke; 
this is Halloween, you know. 

JEANETTE — Sure enough. Of course, I am glad it is 
not so, but I really can't see why he should play such a trick ; 
I was frightened to death. I ran the car up here all myself, 
and I am so nervous, I am afraid I can't run it home. 

TEMPLETON — You had better come into my room, and 
rest a little. 

JEANETTE — Thank you, I believe I shall have to. 

(They return to Templeton's room. He blows out the 
candle, and returns it to the chiffonier. She sits down 
in the large chair beside his desk.) 

JEANETTE— May I have a drink of water ? My throat 
is parched from excitement. (He opens the window and 
gets a glass and a water bottle from the sill.) Jefferson is a 
trifle queer, but he has never done anything like this before. 
(He pours the water and hands it to her. She drinks and 
places the glass on the desk.) Thank you. Where do you 
suppose he is now? 

TEMPLETON — (returning the bottle to the sill) This is 
Thursday evening ; they call it f rat night, I believe. 

JEANETTE — But why are there no lights in the house ? 

TEMPLETON — It is just a custom ; at eight o'clock the 
switch is turned off. 

JEANETTE — Oh yes, this is the night they hold sacred — 
they all wear black clothes, and march into those mysterious 
buildings to offer prayer. 

TEMPLETON— Prayer ! 

JEANETTE — Yes ; they pray until midnight, and then 
they march out again, pure and sweet, with all their sins 
forgiven — that's what Mr. Adder told me. 

TEMPLETON — ^You must not believe all you hear. 

JEANETTE — Then what is it they do in those dumb- 
looking houses ? 



THE ICE LENS 87 

TEMPLETON— These little school boys have their 
secrets — just like you girls. 

JEANETTE— You can't blame me for being curious. 
Can you? 

TEMPLETON — No ; you would be a curious girl if you 
were otherwise. 

JEANETTE — But students do silly things ; don't they ? 

TEMPLETON — Yes indeed ; almost as silly as girls do — 

JEANETTE — How rude you are to make the comparison. 

TEMPLETON— I trust I have not offended you. 

JEANETTE — No ; not exactly. But you see I am not 
accustomed to even the slightest slander. Everybody ad- 
mires me. (She feels her hair to see if it is in place.) 

(In this scene we have Templeton in a lighter mood. He 
undertakes to bring Jeanette Lyon to her senses. He 
cofnmences playfully, using more or less good-natured 
ridicule, hut always resorting to moderation when his 
subject appears in the least offended.) 

TEMPLETON — (sitting down at his desk and turning 
his chair so as to face her) And you like to be admired, do 
you? 

JEANETTE — (sittnig up in her chair in great expecta- 
tion) I am perfectly silly about it. 

TEMPLETON— May I ask you what that means ? "per- 
fectly silly"? 

JEANETTE— Oh— don't you know? 

TEMPLETON — I will look it up in my dictionary to 
make sure. (He takes a hook from his desk and turns over 
a few pages.) Perfect — ^that means "complete." (He turns 
over a few m,ore.) Silly — that means "brainless." (He 
closes the hook and returns it to his desk.) That is: you 
say you are "completely brainless." 

JEANETTE— I didn't mean that at all. 

TEMPLETON — Of course not; but your diction is ab- 
surd, isn't it ? Rather affected ? 



88 THE ICE LENS 

JEANETTE — No ; it is my natural way of speaking. I 
always make it a point to have nothing artificial about me. 

TEMPLETON — (reaching over and removing a puff 
from her hair) What about this ? 

JEANETTE — I think you are perfectly horrid, — but you 
have wonderful eyes to observe it. My hairdresser worked 
for two weeks to get the proper shade; I thought it was an 
awfully stunning match. 

TEMPLETON — (placing the puff on his desk) Do you 
think they are becoming? 

JEANETTE — Whether they are or not, I must be up 
to date. 

TEMPLETON— Rather than sensible? 

JEANETTE — Well, how would you expect a girl to wear 
her hair? 

TEMPLETON — (pointing to the print over the book- 
case) Are you familiar with the portrait of Mona Lisa? 

JEANETTE — What a youthful face she has ! I wonder 
what secret she had to preserve it. 

TEMPLETON — Simply this : she never marred her nat- 
ural beauty with all the artificial devices with which you 
girls of to-day disfigure yourselves. (He picks up the puff.) 
Do you see anything like that in her hair? 

JEANETTE — People would laugh at me if I wore my 
hair like hers. 

TEMPLETON — Are you quite sure some of them do not 
laugh at it as it is? 

JEANETTE — If they do, it is because they don't know 
the very latest style. 

TEMPLETON — Style is not always taste; a little con- 
servatism often saves us from becoming fashion freaks. 

JEANETTE — (slightly agitated) You think I look like a 
freak ; do you ? 

TEMPLETON — I saw a girl walk down the street to-day, 



THE ICE LENS 89 

and I almost called out the department of public safety — I 
thought a wild hyena had escaped from the zoo. 

JEANETTE — (with greater agitation) Then you think 
I look like a hyena? 

TEMPLETON — No ; you are not so dangerous looking 
as she. You are somewhat human — more on the order of a 
chimpanzee. 

JEANETTE — (furiously) I almost hate you. 

TEMPLETON — Now come; let us be reasonable. Just 
walk over to the mirror, and see how much all that protrud- 
ing hair in the rear resembles a monkey's cranium. 

JEANETTE — (starting toward the mirror and then stop- 
ping suddenly) I don't care to see it. 

TEMPLETON— I don't blame you. 

JEANETTE — (examining the Mona Lisa more carefully) 
If I should wear my hair like that, my face would look like 
a jelly-fish. 

TEMPLETON— Oh ! Let us not get into such deep 
water. Your face is far better than you think it is. You 
really spoil it, not only with all that false hair but also by 
powdering your nose. 

JEANETTE — (quickly) How do you know my nose is 
powdered ? 

TEMPLETON— You are trying to hide a freckle. (He 
holds up his finger.) Now aren't you ? 

JEANETTE — Yes ; because men don't like to see freckles 
on ladies' noses. 

TEMPLETON— If you are really worth loving, that in- 
significant little freckle isn't going to keep any man with 
common-sense from doing it. 

JEANETTE — (from behind the desk) If I am really 
worth loving ! Why of course I am. 

TEMPLETON— What makes you think so ? 
JEANETTE — Everybody loves me; all the young men 
stand up before me and shout their praises. 



90 THE ICE LENS 

TEMPLETON— And you believe all they say ? 

JEANETTE — Most certainly ; you should hear the way 
they say it. It's simply glorious. 

TEMPLETON — I wonder if it is anything more than 
flattery. 

JEANETTE — You mean they are playing me false? 

TEMPLETON — Perhaps. (His talk takes a serious 
turn) Most girls are like so many blind fish tossed about 
helplessly on the sea of life; now this way, now that — 
simply the plaything of a heartless sea-monster. I pity them, 
and then again, I wonder sometimes if they themselves are 
not to blame. So few of them have an object in life higher 
than that of merely looking attractive. They thirst after 
pearls, diamonds, satins, laces, furs, in fact everything which 
serves to detract from the natural beauty which God has 
given them. Where is the woman soul? They let it sleep 
and languish undiscovered within them. Their one desire is 
wealth for the decoration of their bodies. They overlook 
every other quality in the man who possesses it. They are 
guided only by the glitter of his gold. It blinds their eyes 
to all his hidden vices, and they stumble helplessly into his 
arms having attained that honorable distinction — his only 
legitimate concubine. 

JEANETTE (with horror) Oh ! Have you no respect to 
say such a thing before me! 

TEMPLETON — I have more than respect; I have com- 
passion. Perhaps I have spoken too plainly, but I wanted 
you to understand me clearly. Girls blush and faint too 
easily ; their ears are too delicate. But the time has arrived 
when they must listen to other than sugar-coated words. 
This modesty is too often mistaken for virtue. Virtue 
means courage — ^not timidity; and until girls know it as 
such, modern marriage will continue to be little more than 
a trap for innocent butterflies. 

JEANETTE — I am glad now that you have told me ; it 



THE ICE LENS 91 

has given me greater confidence than ever in Reginald. I 
only see now what an angel he is compared to other men. It 
would have been just my luck to catch one of those sea- 
serpents had I gone fishing for myself, but my dear good 
Dad has avoided that by making the selection for me. 

TEMPLETON— It is beautiful that father and child 
should agree — if their common plan guarantees future hap- 
piness. 

JEANETTE — You seem to doubt my father's judg- 
ment. 

TEMPLETON — It is not impossible that fathers are 
sometimes wrong. 

JEANETTE— M3/ father? Never. I shall always do 
exactly as he wishes ; I shall let him lead me everywhere. 

TEMPLETON — You should learn to rely a little more on 
yourself. (He picks up the puff of hair again.) When I 
drew this from your hair, I never once thought the inside of 
your head was likewise not your own. Come, sit down ; let 
us talk it over. Let us see if you can reason. (Jeanette, 
som,ewhat reluctantly, takes the large chair again.) Now 
suppose your father has chosen wrongly; suppose the man 
selected for your future companion doesn't really care for 
you at heart; suppose he is dishonorable — too dishonorable 
to tell you openly that he is morally unclean, and that you 
would consequently suffer sorrow and pain. Then your 
father would have to shoulder all the blame, and you would 
have to admit that you yourself had done nothing to avoid 
your own grief as well as his, but that you had walked into 
it willingly, blindly. Why not use your own eyes a little? 
Think how beautiful it would be if you could show an erring 
father the truth — if you could change him into a righteous 
man. 

JEANETTE — You have started me to thinking; that is 
something I have never done before. 

TEMPLETON — We have made a discovery ! 



92 THE ICE LENS 

JEANETTE — The discovery that I am nothing more than 
a fickle goose without a mind of my own — a simpleton 
dancing to any tune which others chance to whistle. 

T^MVUETO^— (consolingly) No. 

JEANETTE — (emphatically) Yes I am, and anyone who 
says I am anything better is only flattering me. It's true ; it's 
true; and you are the first person who has ever shown me 
what a shallow thing I am. I spoke the truth after all when 
I told you I was perfectly silly. (She sobs.) 

TEMPLETON — Oh ! You aren't going to cry ; are you ? 

JEANETTE — (lowering her head on the arm of the 
chair) Yes ; I shall feel the better for it. 

TEMPLETON — Good ! I shall give you a handkerchief. 
(He reaches into his coat pocket, and unconsciously pulls out 
the pink stocking. Jeanette, of course, does not see it, and 
he lowers it quickly into the zvastehasket at the side of his 
desk. Then he walks to the chiffonier, opens a drawer, takes 
out a folded handkerchief, and hands it to her.) Here is a 
nice clean one. Sorry I have no perfume, but the blue border 
is an "awfully stunning match" to your dress. 

JEANETTE — (lifting her face and taking the handker- 
chief with a smile) Thanks ; I must have left mine in the car. 

TEMPLETON — Your tears have washed all the powder 
off your nose, and I believe the freckle has gone with them. 

JEANETTE — I shouldn't be surprised if it has, because 
I feel as though I have been changed all over. 

TEMPLETON— That's splendid— have another drink of 
water. (He hands her the glass, and she takes a sip or two.) 
Drink more ; wash away all that former frivolity. (She 
empties the glass.) There ! I knew all the while there was 
the making of a sensible girl within you. 

JEANETTE— How did you know it? 

TEMPLETON — Any girl who is brave enough to enter 
a dark building alone is brave enough to defy custom and 
submission by exercising good judgment and independence. 



THE ICE LENS 93 

JEANETTE — Please tell me your ideal of a girl. 

TEMPLETON — (sitting down again at his desk) I once 
thought she was lost forever by the wayside, but I know she 
is still among us, only we do not recognize her stifling under 
the dust and grime which arise from this futile combat for 
wealth, title, and notoriety. That girl shall never die; that 
girl who is herself as God made her ; that girl who is more 
than a mere body ; that girl who has a living and a loving 
soul ; whose personality surpasses her beauty ; whose culture 
outshines her fashion ; who is sensible ; self-reliant ; wide- 
awake. 

JEANETTE — (awakening) Who are you? I have been 
been here all this time, and have never once thought to ask. 

TEMPLETON— I am the proctor— John Templeton by 
name. 

JEANETTE — ^And you stay alone here in the dark ? 

TEMPLETON— Yes; alone. 

JEANETTE — How did you happen to get here ? 

TEMPLETON — There is a Higher Power that sends men 
into the dark to help those who are stumbling there. 

JEANETTE— A Higher Power? 

TEMPLETON — Yes ; I serve that Power by working for 
Light, Truth and Good. 

JEANETTE— For Light? 

TEMPLETON — By opening the eyes of the blind and 
the ignorant. 

JEANETTE— For Truth? 

TEMPLETON — That they may see things as they are. 

JEANETTE— For Good? 

TEMPLTON — That they may be restored to honor and 
integrity. 

JEANETTE — You must be happy with such a noble task. 

TEMPLETON— I am ; very happy. 

JEANETTE — Nothing, I suppose, could make you hap- 
pier ? 



94 THE ICE LENS 

TEMPLETON— Yes ; could I find it. 
]'EK'i^'ETi:R— (hesitating) What? 

TEMPLETON '• — Co-operation : someone who is not 
afraid to seek and learn the truth; someone who is brave 
enough to fight and conquer evil ; someone to share my devo- 
tion to God's work for the righteousness and happiness of 
His people ; someone who is nearer to them, perhaps, than I ; 
someone to call them back to honor and manliness ; and to 
tear asunder the web they are spinning about her. 

(There is a marked silence, during which both Jeanette 

and Templeton are lost in mutual reflection. Then she 

rises suddenly from her chair, and holds out her hand.) 

JEANETTE— Good night, Mr. Templeton. 

TEMPLETON — (taking her hand firmly) Good night; I 

shall go with you to the door. 

JEANETTE — Please don't ; I wish to go alone. I must 
go alone. 

TEMPLETON— But the hallway is dark ; I shall prepare 
a candle. 

JEANETTE — It is not necessary. You have already 
given me — "The Light." 

(At this instant one of the glowing logs in the grate in 
Adder's room falls apart, and bursts into flame, illumi- 
nating the walls with a bright flickering light. Jeanette 
leaves Templeton's room, softly closing the door. He 
walks toward the bed, rem,oves the Ninety-first Psalm 
there, carries it forward to the light, sits in the large 
chair, and reads it in silence. Jeanette passes the door of 
Adder's room,. Her eyes are immediately attracted by 
the reflection of the firelight from, the silver picture 
frame on his desk. She walks in, lifts up the picture, 
returns it, sinks into the chair, sobs aloud, and buries 
her face in her arms on the top of the desk. Then she 
lifts her head, and dries her tears with the handkerchief 
— the blue-bordered one from Templeton ; she holds it 



THE ICE LENS 95 

at arm's length, and then raises it to her lips. Walking 
to the fireplace, she removes the engagement ring — 
Lulu's, by the way — from her finger, and drops it among 
the embers. She gazes dreamily into the fire for a 
second or two, and then leaves the room quietly.) 
TEMPLETON — (reading a part of the psalm aloud) 
'Thou shalt tread upon the Hon and adder." 



ACT III 

(The fire.) 



ACT III 

The scene is in the "Lyon's Den" a month or so later; it 
shows the large living-room at Ralph Lyon's home. A 
large archway in the rear opens into a conservatory with 
numerous palms. These palms encircle a fountain, 
which plays over a group of statues of nude women; a 
softened effect is given to the setting by means of a rosy 
light, the source of which is hidden under the water. 
On either side of the archway are larger statues of the 
same description, each supporting a cluster of electric 
lights. Above the arch, there is a long horizontal paint- 
ing of the "Fatim,a" type in Adder's room. There is a 
smaller archway above the floor-level in the left wall; 
two or three semi-circular steps lead up to it, and a pair 
of heavy portieres are drawn across it. On either side 
of this second arch there are stationary bookcases ex- 
tending half way up to the ceiling; the tops of these are 
ornamented with smaller statues, and another art (?) 
picture hangs over each. In the right wall, there is a 
third arch opening into an entrance-hall from the street. 
On the side of it nearest the conservatory, stands a cel- 
larette; on the other side, a sm,all table, the under shelf 
of which holds a sewing basket. "Fatima No. /(' hangs 
over the cellarette, and a large painting of Mona Lisa 
hangs over the table. A large davenport stands parallel 
to the left wall directly before the steps. A circular 
seat, with an electrolier running up through its center, 
stands to the right, placed sym^metrically with respect to 
the entrance-hall arch. There are other pieces of appro- 
priate furniture, including a reading-chair placed in 
front of the nearest bookcase. The floors are covered 
with Oriental rugs. There are small bracket-lights on 



100 THE ICE LENS 

either side of the right and left arches. The general 
atmosphere of the room reflects the depraved tastes of 
Ralph Lyon him,self ; the paintings and statuary stand 
out boldly against the dark walls and heavy tapestries. 
Everything is elaborate but not elegant. 
Mrs. Lyon is seated on the davenport, wrapped up in a 
shawl and working over her em^broidery. Ralph Lyon, 
in a sm,oking- jacket, stands before the cellarette pouring 
out a glass of brandy. 

MRS. LYON — Dear me; I've sewed so much, I've got 
a stitch in my side. (She rises, places her fancy work 
on the davenport, and crosses the room to get another 
shade of silk from the basket under the table. She glances 
up at the Mona Lisa.) I suppose a person needs a col- 
lege education, Ralph, before they can admire this new oil 
painting. I am afraid Jeanette will have the same trouble 
getting me to like it that she had cultivating my taste for 
olives. 

LYON — (draining the glass) It's a perfect freak of a pic- 
ture, and it's as much out of place in this collection as a 
milkshake in a barroom. (He returns the bottle and glass to 
the cellarette and closes the door rather noisily.) 

MRS. LYON — Jeanette raves about the expression of the 
face and the beautiful simplicity of the dress. 

LYON — (taking up the book he had left open on the cir- 
cular seat) Bosh ! if she had no dress on at all, there might 
be something worth while looking at. (He sits down and 
begins to read.) 

MRS. LYON — (returning to the davenport) Well, Ralph, 
while I do not take a great fancy to Jeanette's taste in paint- 
ings, I must say that I can't rave over yours either. I love 
rural pictures ; if I had my way, I would have the walls 
covered with cows instead of "bares." 

LYON — If you had your way, we would all be living 



THE ICE LENS 101 

fifty miles out in the country on a farm, where there would 
be nothing to drink stronger than buttermilk. 

MRS. LYON — I would be in heaven then, Ralph, and I 
know Jefferson would be in his glory. 

LYON — Jefferson ! If you would put him on a farm, he 
would be holding services in the barnyard trying to convert 
the pigs and the geese. 

MRS. LYON — Poor Jeff. My heart aches for him ; he is 
always being nagged at. 

LYON — Yes. He is the cause of all the nagging in this 
house; if it hadn't been for him, we wouldn't have been 
forced to live together, and the chances are you and I would 
each have found a more congenial mate. (There is a short 
silence, during which Mrs. Lyon brushes aside a tear.) Oh ! 
there's no use crying over it; what's done can't be undone. 
But Jefferson himself could do a lot more to make us all 
happier. If he would only forget this confounded mission- 
ary idea of his and be human like other boys. It will be a 
happy day for me when Jeanette is married to young Adder ; 
I will at least have a son-in-law, if not a son, who will sit 
down and take a drink with me in the evenings. 

MRS. LYON — I believe something cold has come between 
Jeanette and Reginald. She seems somewhat queer of late. 

LYON — That's nothing; all girls get that way when 
they're engaged. 

MRS. LYON — She has decided not to go to the Prom, and 
last year she was wild about it. 

LYON — She will change her mind before long. 

MRS. LYON — Many a girl would jump at the chance. 

LYON — Just leave it to me ; I will get her around to going. 

MRS. LYON — Yes ; you can do anything with her. She 
always was her father's girl. My ways have never suited 
her ; they are too old-fashioned. 

LYON — I suppose she does find you rather unprogressive. 
You and Jefferson make a better pair. 



102 THE ICE LENS 

MRS. LYON — I do the best I can, Ralph. I was brought 
up in more humble surroundings, and my education was 
none too good. I have since done what I could to improve it. 
But my friends do not appeal to Jeanette. She prefers the 
company of yours on account of their wealth and social posi- 
tion. She always has been fond of display. Of course I 
cannot buy the pearls, the elegant furs and the valuable 
clothes which you shower upon her. All I can give her is 
a mother's love, and that, I assure you, will never grow cold 
whatever be her own feelings toward me. 

LYON — Why she is just in the prime of life. You 
can't expect her to be cooped up in the house all the time with 
her arm around her mother's neck. Anyhow, isn't it enough 
that you should have Jefferson? Leave Jeanette's affection 
for me. 

MRS. LYON — I would not for the world have it dimin- 
ished in any way ; it is all you have, Ralph, since my affec- 
tion for you is not exactly welcome. 

(Jeanette enters from behind the portieres, and descends 
the steps to the front bookcase. Her dress is simple and 
neat, and her hair is modestly arranged. It is, however, 
rather from the trend of her conversation that we per- 
ceive a decided turn in character. Her repartee, through- 
out the following scenes, is by no m,eans restrained, and 
seems even rude at times. But we must not forget that, 
in the previous Act, she ivas openly made the target of 
much irritative — however helpful — criticism, and it is 
only natural that she, who heretofore has displayed little 
if any self-control, should attack revengefully those for 
whom, she has unknowingly served as puppet. In fact, 
we see her in a transient state; Templeton's message has 
awakened in her a powerful sentiment, but her motives 
are as yet irrational.) 
LYON — (being the first to observe her) We have just 
been discussing you, Jeanette. 



THE ICE LENS 103 

JEANETTE — I trust nothing but good things were said, 
Father. 

MRS. LYON — It was about the Prom, Jeanette. 

LYON — Mother said you were thinking about omitting it 
this year from your calendar of festivities. 

JEANETTE— Yes ; I shall. 

LYON— Why? 

JEANETTE — Oh, I have outgrown dancing. I have de- 
cided it is all so very silly — one just goes round and round 
in circles and never gets anywhere. I am going to spend my 
winter evenings reading good literature. (She glances over 
the books on the shelves.) We used to have a copy of 
Emerson. 

LYON — Emerson ! Bosh ! (He holds up the book he has 
in his hand.) Why don't you read some of those short 
French stories ? (He points to the further bookcase.) There 
are one hundred volumes at your command, each and every- 
one filled with spicy exciting tales. 

JEANETTE — (still searching for her book) It had a 
green binding. Do you happen to know where it is, Mother ? 

MRS. LYON — It is not on that shelf, dear; they are all 
my books on farming and cattle-raising. Very likely you 
will find it on the shelf below. 

JEANETTE — (taking a book and opening it) Yes ; here 
it is. I have opened it to the very thing I wanted — an essay 
on Self-Reliance. 

LYON — (returning to the original conversation) But 
then, Jeanette, aside from the dancing, look at the many 
acquaintances you will miss — wealthy young men from all 
parts of the country. 

JEANETTE — My coterie is quite extensive as it is. 
Father, as far as wealthy young men are concerned ; I know 
enough of these handsome faces and fur-lined coats who are 
spending their fathers' incomes. 

LYON — You have found them entertaining ; haven't you? 



104 THE ICE LENS 

JEANETTE — (slozvly turning over the pages of her 
hook) Yes. They know how to be deliciously sociable; they 
can play both bridge and golf ; they can dance like fairies ; 
they are very gallant and remarkably well versed in the art 
of flattery and — well, that's about all. (She sits down in 
the reading chair.) 

LYON — You admire such accomplishments ; don't you ? 

JEANETTE — Yes; if there is something really worth 
while to go with them, — but all garnish and no meat makes 
Jack a deceit. 

LYON — Well, what more do you want them to have ? 

JEANETTE — Ambition; at least one grain of it. They 
don't even know they have such a thing as a brain. 

LYON — They are attending college ; aren't they ? 

JEANETTE — Yes ; I, too, went through that refining 
process. 

LYON — And look what it has made of you. 

JEANETTE — Yes ; look. A perfect lady who can ride 
horseback and say "Parlez vous Frangais?" but who hasn't 
enough common-sense to thread a needle. What a fine 
thing it would be if Miss Martinet would abolish her 
course in aesthetic dancing, and teach the girls how to bake 
a cake. 

LYON — (teasing her) Why you are a splendid little cook, 
Jeanette; I shall never forget that marble cake you baked 
last summer. 

MRS. LYON — (who has been enjoying the conversation 
in silence) Don't discourage the poor girl by bringing that 
up again. 

LYON — Bringing it up ! I never got mine down. 

JEANETTE — And it is just the same with the young man 
who attends college : he can't apply what he has learned to 
making dough, either, and consequently he must live on his 
father's roll. 

LYON — Men don't go to college to learn how to make 



THE ICE LENS 105 

money ; they go to learn how to spend it. The college educa- 
tion is intended for gentlemen only. 

JEANETTE — Yes. In Freshman year they study Geom- 
etry, and learn the proper length for trousers and the correct 
angle for the hat ; in Sophomore year they study Chemistry, 
and learn how to generate hot air ; in Junior year they study 
History, and learn the laws of chivalry and the art of keep- 
ing dates ; in Senior year they study Botany, and learn how 
to grow a mustache. Educated — Q, E. D. 

MRS. LYON— What does that mean, Jeanette? That 
Q.E.D.? 

JEANETTE — Queasy Effeminate Dudes. That is the 
type of young man Father wants me to meet. Well, I have 
had enough of them, and from now on, I want associates 
who are really of some use in this world — people who are 
doing it some good — ^people with the higher and nobler 
thought. 

LYON — You don't mean poets and preachers ; do you ? 
Good Lord, don't encourage their calling at the house; one 
is enough in the family. Let us have more real men like Mr. 
Adder; he is my ideal. 

JEANETTE — He was mine also at one time, but quite 
fortunately I changed my mind before it was too late. (Lyon 
drops his hook, and Mrs. Lyon stops sewing, but Jeanette 
starts to read her Emerson without noticing the astonish- 
ment caused by her remark.) 

LYON — Why, Jeanette, what do you mean? 

JEANETTE — I mean that I no longer desire his company. 

LYON — There must be a reason. 

JEANETTE — (closing her book emphatically) There is: 
Mr. Adder is only the husband you have selected for me ; he 
is not the man of my choice. 

LYON — (rising) What difference does that make? 
Doesn't he come from an aristocratic family? Isn't he 
wealthy ? Isn't he a fine fellow in every way ? 



106 THE ICE LENS 

JEANETTE — You may think so, but not I. 

LYON — (angrily) It matters little what you think ; in 
fact, you don't how to think, and that is why I had to find a 
husband for you. You will marry Mr. Adder, or not marry 
at all. 

JEANETTE — (rising quickly) That is a question which 
/ shall decide. In one thing, at least, a girl should have her 
own way, and that is in choosing the man with whom she 
must live, side by side, for the rest of her lifetime — the man 
on whom all her future happiness depends. I cannot sacri- 
fice that happiness just to please you; the only way I can 
please you and make you happy is to acquire happiness first 
for myself. Your choice would bring me nothing but grief. 
Later you will justify me for having returned Mr. Adder's 
engagement ring. 

LYON — (shinned) What! You have returned his ring? 

JEANETTE— Yes. 

LYON — (unable to restrain himself) You young idiot ! 
Have you lost your head ? 

JEANETTE — (calmly) No ; I have acquired one. 

(Jeanette walks up the steps reading her essay. Her 
parents stare at her in silence and astonishment. Then, 
Mrs. Lyon, smiling in admiration, resum,es her sewing, 
while the father, zvhite with rage, paces up and down 
the floor.) 

MRS. LYON — I wonder what has come over the child. 

LYON — The devil has gotten into her ; she's bewitched. 

MRS. LYON — There's something at the bottom of it— 

LYON — And I'll thrash it out. There must be a very 
good reason made clear to me before I'll allow this state of 
affairs to continue. We can't let such a fine chap escape 
from the family. I shall have him come to the house to- 
night, and we will learn the whole situation. (He reflects 
for a feiv moments.) I've got it : I'll 'phone to him and ask 
him over for a few rubbers of bridge. 



THE ICE LENS 107 

(He ascends the steps, and leaves the room. Morris ap- 
pears at the entrance-hall arch.) 
MORRIS— Mrs. Dearborn Hunter. 

MRS. LYON — (rising, removing her shawl, folding it and 
hanging it across the back of the davenport) I suppose it's 
too early to say I have retired, so I shall have to endure her. 
Let it in, Morris. 

(Morris leaves, and we immediately hear Mrs. Hunter's 
tongue before she makes her appearance. She enters, 
and throws her cape on the circular seat, displaying a 
very showy evening gown, cut extremely low in the 
front and even more so in the back. Her coiffure is 
most outlandish, her arms and fingers are groaning with 
jewelry, and her face is besmeared with powder and 
paint.) 
MRS. HUNTER — Good evening. Dearie. How fortun- 
ate to find you home! I invited myself over to spend the 
whole evening; I knew you would be delighted. (She 
greets Mrs. Lyon with a kiss, and stands, facing the con- 
servatory, so that we cannot fail to observe her posterior 
exposure.) It's a very cold night; isn't it? My back is 
almost frozen in spite of the fact that I have changed to 
my heaviest underwear. You don't mind my taking a little 
brandy ; do you ? 

MRS. LYON — (returning to the davenport) Not at all. 
Perhaps you would like a shawl also? 

MRS. BXJ'NT'ER— (opening the cellarette) No; thank 
you, Dearie. I'll be warmed up directly. (She pours out a 
glass of liquor.) Won't you join me? 

MRS. LYON— No, indeed ; Ralph does all the drinking 
for the whole house. 

MRS. HUNTER— What a lucky man ! How I envy him ! 
(She drinks, and then reads the label on the bottle.) Hen- 
nessy — Three Star. My, but that is elegant. (She quickly 
takes a second glass, and then returns the bottle to the eel- 



108 THE ICE LENS 

larette.) Mr. Hunter buys me such cheap truck; it tastes 
like dish water, and he Hmits me to three bottles a week, — 
but I manage to have a few extras smuggled in. This Hen- 
nessy makes me feel like a girl in her teens. (She lifts up 
her skirt, displaying a pair of brilliant lavender stockings, 
and, humming a sensual waits, she dances frivolously about 
the room,, stopping suddenly before the portrait of Mona 
Lisa.) Oh ! you've got a new picture — Rembrandt's Mona 
Lisa — the most remarkable Selbsbildniss ever painted. 

MRS. LYON — (taking up her fancy work again) I must 
try and remember that; it will please Jeanette to hear me 
say it. 

MRS. HUNTER — (examining the painting more closely 
with her lorgnette) I saw the original in Rome last summer. 
It hangs beside Paul Potter's Bull in St. Paul's Cathedral. 

MRS. LYON — If it were only a bull's picture instead! 
Rural pictures are more to my taste. Jeanette thinks it is 
wonderful, but I cannot make myself like it. 

MRS. HUNTER — (walking over to the davenport, and 
sitting down beside Mrs. Lyon) How pitiful ! But, without 
wishing to appear rude, I should correct a false impression : 
Paul Potter's Bull, Dearie, is not that kind of a bull ; it is a 
fac simile of one of the bulls edicted by Pope Leo, I believe, 
in regard to the Church of England. You surely didn't sup- 
pose they would hang a Holstein in a Cathedral. Let me 
think : is it Holstein or Holbein ? I've forgotten ; but you 
should really do more to cultivate your taste in art. Dearie. 
Have you subscribed for the opera? 

MRS. LYON — No ; only for Country Life and Collier's. 

MRS. HUNTER — I was referring to the opera season, 
Dearie. Mr. DePeyster took me the other night. Mary 
Garden appeared in The Countess of Hoffm^ann: her voice 
was truly remarkable, and her acting was perfect, but her 
coloratura — oh ! it didn't fit well at all. To-morrow night 
we are going to hear Thais with Slezak in the title role; 



THE ICE LENS 109 

they say her voice is so womanly and tender. I suppose you 
would be bored by it all, Dearie? 

MRS. LYON — I would far rather hear a cow bawl; 
there's more tune to it. 

MRS. HUNTER— If I could only persuade you to forget 
that dairy farm. Really, Dearie, you should strive to admire 
the anaesthetic, — but you are exactly like Mr. Hunter. He 
prefers the lighter operas like Salome, and the more frivo- 
lous performers like Bernhardt and Fritzi Scheff. I simply 
can't stand them ; Bernhardt is so fleshy, and Fritzi — oh ! I 
think it's frightful how low she wears her gowns. The 
truth about Mr. Hunter is : he doesn't know what he wants. 
He's getting to be such a terrible bore. He's asleep half the 
time ; our evenings are so dull, and if I try to amuse him 
with my conversation he takes up his hat and coat, and goes 
to the club. It is really the best thing for the poor fellow 
to do. It is only right that we should live as individuals ; 
what's pleasure for wife cannot always be pleasure for hus- 
band. Anyhow, happy marriages are quite out of fashion, 
and if one is out of fashion one might just as well be dead. 

(Jeanette walks down the steps, and stands behind the 
davenport unnoticed. She still has her hook under her 
arm. Mrs. Lyon continues to sew, and Mrs. Hunter 
continues to talk.) 

I have found a most entertaining companion in Mr. Chaun- 
cey Everit DePeyster; he's such a jolly fellow — so brilliant 
and so witty. When Mr. Hunter goes to the club I just 'phone 
to Chauncey. He has never once refused an invitation. He 
is Mr. Adder's roommate; you know. I often tell him to 
bring that young gentleman along, but he seems to have 
other interests. (She places her head a little nearer to Mrs. 
Lyon's, and lowers the tone of her voice.) I really shouldn't 
repeat it, but Chauncey tells me Adder has a terrible crush on 
a certain chorus girl he calls Lulu. (Mrs. Lyon stops sewing. 
Her face takes on a look of surprise, hut Jeanette taps her 



110 THE ICE LENS 

lightly on the shoulder, and she resumes her sewing, listen- 
ing more attentively to the rem,arks of her visitor, hut show- 
ing the same outward disinterest as heretofore.) He follows 
her all around the neighboring towns on one-night stands, 
and each time brings back a pair of her stockings to decorate 
his room at the dormitory. (She slaps Mrs. Lyon on the 
thigh, and laughs coarsely.) It's too bad he must associate 
with such vulgar material, but, after hard study all day long, 
I suppose the young men need something to refresh them, 
and for that reason I do all that is in my power for Chaun- 
cey. (Jeanette steps forward from her place of vantage.) 
Ah ! good evening. Miss Jeanette. What makes you look so 
queer, child ? Oh ! it's your hair. I don't like it at all — so 
painfully simple. 

MRS. LYON— But very natural. 

MRS. HUNTER — And yet so unbecoming. Chauncey 
admired mine so warmly last night. 

JEANETTE — Of course. Men are all that way. They 
admire anything extreme; they would twist their heads off 
their shoulders to gloat after a hobble skirt, and that is just 
the reason so many girls wear them. They are just as bad 
as the men ; they will wear an5^hing to attract attention. 

MRS. HUNTER— Don't forget that your own creations 
this fall were the talk of the town ; even doty Mr. Hunter — 
to say nothing of the younger set — used to remark over the 
opportunity they gave you to display your stunning figure. 

JEANETTE — Yes, but I have made a resolution to mas- 
querade no more. I shall dress modestly and simply, and if 
men are going to admire me, it must be for what there is in 
me, and not for mere externalities. 

MRS. HUNTER— f^o Mrs. Lyon) What a change has 
come over your daughter. Dearie ! 

MRS. LYON — A change which I very much admire. 

MRS. HUNTER — Where did you get your ideas, 
Jeanette ? 



THE ICE LENS 111 

JEANETTE — From yonder picture — Mona Lisa. She is 
divinely beautiful : her graceful hands are unmarred by 
rings ; her hair could have no gentler an arrangement, and 
her dress is simplicity itself. 

MRS. HUNTER— Then what is it that makes her beau- 
tiful? 

JEANETTE — Her personality — her inner self — her soul. 

MRS. HUNTER — How can an artist paint what he can- 
not see ? Her inner self ? 

JEANETTE — Leonardo did not paint what he saw. He 
produced in form and color the influence which her spiritual 
being had upon him. Each quality, good or bad, that dwells 
within us can be expressed in the human face. The char- 
acter of Mona Lisa is portrayed in her countenance, and 
there one reads the sweetness and the purity of her soul. 

MRS. HUNTER — But the whole make-up is ridiculously 
plain. 

JEANETTE — Only those of us who have hard faces 
must put them in the shadow of an absurd overhanging hair- 
dress, and cover over with paint and cosmetics the lines 
which sin and abuse have stamped upon them. 

MRS. HUNTER— You had better beware. Dearie, lest 
Jeanette end her days in a convent. 

JEANETTE — I am not joking, Mrs. Hunter; I am 
serious. 

MRS. HUNTER — I should say you are : If you are not 
careful, you will be consumed by your own ideals. 

JEANETTE — (sitting in the reading chair, and opening 
her hook) A condition to which some of us have already 
been reduced. 

(Mrs. Hunter conceals a slight embarrassment under a 
forced laugh. Morris again appears at the entrance- 
hall arch.) 

MORRIS— Mr. Adder and Mr. DePeyster. 

(He leaves, and the two m£n enter.) 



112 THE ICE LENS 

MRS. HUNTER — (rushing to meet DePeyster) Ah ! my 
dear Mr. DePeyster, what a pleasure for you to find me 
here ! (She takes his hand, and they engage in conversation 
nnnoticed by the others.) 

ADDER — (offering his hand) Good evening, Mrs. Lyon. 
MRS. LYON — (rising, taking it somewhat coolly, and sit- 
ting down again) Good evening. 

ADDER — (extending his hand to Jeanette) Good evening, 
Jeanette. 

JEANETTE — (rising, and returning her book to the 
shelf) Good evening, Mr. Adder. It is a very cold night; 
isn't it ? 

ADDER — (dropping his hand) Rather. 
(Jeanette walks toward the davenport, and, standing be- 
hind it, she stoops over and places her arms lovingly 
about her mother's neck. Neither of them speak, but 
during their silence, in which they seem, unconscious of 
the presence and actions of the others, a feeling of 
tender affection and mutual concord passes between 
them. 
Adder removes the same book which Jeanette had re- 
turned to the shelf.) 
ADDER — (turning over the pages) Wealth. . . .Character 
. . . .Behavior. . . .Compensation. (He closes the book, and 
returns it.) Compensation ? 

(Ralph l.yon_ appears at the head of the steps, unfolding a 

card table.) 
LYON — Good evening, everybody. 

MRS. HUNTER — (leaving DePeyster and crossing the 
room to take Lyon's hand) Why, good evening, Ralphie. 

LYON — (patting her boldly on the back with his left 
hand) You're looking finer that ever, Lottie. Just in time 
for our bridge party. You may play Mrs. Lyon's hand ; she 
makes such a dry partner anyway. 

MRS. HUNTER — (reaching up to straighten his necktie) 



THE ICE LENS 113 

Sorry, but I really must go. I hadn't intended staying long. 
There is no one at home ; Mr. Hunter has gone to the club. 
LYON — (taking her arm) I shall walk over with you. 
MRS. HUNTER — (chucking him under the chin) Not to- 
night, Ralphie ; I have already granted the permission to Mr. 
DePeyster. 

(Mrs. Hunter turns to look in the direction of DePeyster, 
who has been standing statuelike on the same spot since 
his entrance. He meets her glance with a cerem,onious 
how. Mrs. Hunter exchanges a few confidential words 
with Lyon, while Adder, who has been glancing over 
the names of books on the shelves, crosses over to meet 
DePeyster on mention of his name.) 
ADDER — (aside) I brought you along to defend me; 
didn't I ? You must stay, Chaunce. 

DePEYSTER — But, Addy dear, I must be courteous to 
the ladies ; Mrs. Hunter has first claim to me. 

MRS. HUNTER— Good night, Ralphie. Good night, Mr. 
Adder. Good night, Dearie, (then sarcastically to Jeanette) 
Good night. Sister Beatrice. 

(DePeyster throws the cape over Mrs. Hunter's shoulders, 

and they glide out through the entrance-hall.) 
LYON — Well, there are still enough of us left for an 
interesting game. (He places the card table.) Mrs. Lyon 
and I will play you and Jeanette, Reginald — if that is agree- 
able to all. 

ADDER — I am well pleased with the arrangement. 
LYON — And you, Jeanette? 

JEANETTE — (removing her arms from her mother's 
neck) Absolutely indifferent, Father. 

LYON — And, of course, Mother is always satisfied with 
anything. 

MRS. LYON — But in the game we play to-night, she 
prefers to be on her daughter's side. 

LYON — (shuffling the cards) We shall decide it by cut. 



114 THE ICE LENS 

MRS. LYON — The cut has already been made. 

LYON — What do you mean, Mother ? 

MRS. LYON — I see no reason why we should lead up to 
it gradually. What we wish to decide is whether or not Mr. 
Adder is a fit companion for our daughter. 

LYON — (dropping the cards) You are too previous. 

ADDER — I came here with the intention of playing 
bridge. Mr. Lyon 'phoned to me that Jeanette, in particular, 
extended a cordial invitation. If you find yourselves indis- 
posed, I shall gladly leave, and pardon your breach. 

LYON — I am sorry, Mr. Adder, that this question should 
come up so soon. 

ADDER — Soon ! I infer then that the object of this deal 
after all has been to trap me. 

JEANETTE — I wish you to understand, Mr. Adder, that 
this bridge party is no affair of mine. I was entirely un- 
aware of your coming. 

MRS. LYON — No ; Jeanette had not planned it. It is 
simply a scheme of Mr. Lyon's to get you here. 

JEANETTE — I would hardly consider it a polite one. I 
believe in informing both my guests and my family as to the 
nature of my entertainment so they may come prepared. I 
assure you, Mr. Adder, that I have also been trapped, but 
I am not afraid to fight for freedom. 

LYON — Come, come, don't take it so seriously. (He taps 
Adder on the shoulder.) What we wish, my good friend, is 
simply an understanding about the relation between you and 
our daughter. 

ADDER — That is a matter which she alone can ex- 
plain. All I can say is that I love her loyally, and am 
entirely unable to fathom the recent change in her feeling 
toward me. 

JEANETTE — Pardon my interruption. Sir, but I must 
contradict your statement, for you are not loyal, and your 
most ardent declaration will fail to make me think otherwise. 



THE ICE LENS 115 

ADDER — Then what would you have me do to prove my 
sincerity ? 

JEANETTE — Nothing; do not ponder on what you 
should do, but recall what you have done. 

ADDER — I still plead ignorance. 

JEANETTE — I will not believe you. I cannot see why 
my insinuations should amuse you this way. I only regret 
that our friendship lasted as long as it did, and that it had 
been founded on false devotion. 

ADDER — I do wish you would make things clearer, 
Jeanette. 

JEANETTE — I have been your plaything long enough; 
please do not torment me further. If you have any respect 
for me and for my parents, you will favor us with an open 
confession. 

LYON — ^Jeanette is probably making a lot over nothing. 
What's the matter. Adder? Have you been looking at the 
moon with another girl? 

JEANETTE — I am not so narrow-minded as you would 
have us infer, Father; my plea is not jealousy. I would not 
have denied Mr. Adder the pleasure of other girls' company 
provided that pleasure was decent. 

ADDER — What in the world are you leading, up to? Is 
this idle fancy, or have your ears fallen prey to gossip? 
But go on; continue the bridge party; make your grand 
slam. 

JEANETTE — Admit it yourself ; I shall say no more. 

ADDER — ^You needn't ; I see through it all : your brother 
— Jefferson — has played me false after he swore to keep his 
promise. 

LYON — Quite likely; he brings albout more trouble and 
discontent than a nest of yellow jackets. 

JEANETTE — My brother has told me nothing. 

ADDER — (facing Mrs. Lyon) Then he has told your 
mother. 



116 . THE ICE LENS 

MRS. LYON — My son has said absolutely nothing to me, 
but I can well understand my daughter's attitude by what I 
have heard from another source. 

ADDER — From whom? 

MRS. LYON — From Mrs. Dearborn Hunter— the village 
gossip. Believe me, if her ears are open, it doesn't take long 
for her mouth to follow suit. 

ADDER — And where did she hear it? 

MRS. LYON — From your closest friend — ^your roommate 
— Mr. DePeyster. 

ADDER — Then both of them had good reason for depart- 
ing, but they would do well to better their own morals before 
advertising mine. 

LYON — Well, I haven't heard yet what it's all about. 
What are we wrangling over anyhow? 

ADDER — Simply this, Mr. Lyon : I took supper once or 
twice with a chorus girl. 

LYON — (laughing aloud) You women paint everything 
as big as a house. Why there is nothing wrong with Mr. 
Adder's behavior ; the month before I married was the gay- 
est time of my life — to say nothing of the frolics, unknown 
to mother, which followed the nuptial flight. 

MRS. LYON — Ralph, it is nothing to boast of before 
Jeanette. 

JEANETTE — (sinking doivn on the davenport) I am 
sorry, so sorry, to learn of it. 

ADDER — Don't judge me, Jeanette, before you know a 
little more about your own father. Not so long ago, when 
DePeyster called on Mrs. Hunter, he told me he interrupted 
something more than a dinner party between her and (He 
pokes Lyon gently in the ribs.) this old boy. 

JEANETTE — (hiding her face in her arm on the hack of 
the davenport) Oh ! 

LYON — (tickling Adder in the side) Yes ; great joke, 
wasn't it? 



THE ICE LENS 117 

MRS. LYON — Lest both of you have forgotten, I should 
like to remind you of the fact that what you are saying, you 
are saying before my daughter. 

LYON — Bosh ! We will never make any headway unless 
we speak plainly ; we will have to forget our modesty for a 
while, and discuss these affairs to see if they are so damned — 

MRS. UYO^— (quickly) Ralph! My ears have often 
been pained by your language on occasions when I could 
excuse you ; a man is not responsible for what he says when 
he is under the influence of drink, but I always hoped my 
husband could be a gentleman — at least when sober. 

LYON — (hotly) Don't dictate to me. I am the boss in 
this house, and I know my business. Jeanette has got to 
learn plainly that men are all alike — they must have their 
little frolics on the side. 

ADDER — Even Templeton, who is on duty to keep his 
eye on us at the dormitory, is not the angel we thought he 
was. On Halloween, when our fraternity was in session, 
and the whole house in total darkness, a girl was observed to 
slip in from the street, and the next morning the janitor 
found a puff of her hair on Templeton's desk and one of her 
stockings in his wastebasket. 

(Jeanette's head slips from her arm, and she collapses on 
the davenport, unobserved by the others.) 

LYON — Ha, ha, ha — and that's the goody-goody who 
sleeps with the Ninety-first Psalm over his head ! One of 
these people with the higher and nobler thought — as Jeanette 
puts it. (He turns about and faces her.) You see, Daughter, 
you are going to have a hard time finding these good, pure 
people you are preaching about. Don't you think you had 
better call off the quarrel, and shake hands with Reginald? 
Give him a nice kiss, and make everything right again. 

ADDER — Yes, Jeanette. (He puts his arm about her 
waist. The touch of it has the effect of a stimulant; she 
immediately regains strength and courage.) 



118 THE ICE LENS 

JEANETTE — (rising and freeing herself from his em- 
brace) Don't touch me. I can never like you or come near 
you again, and even if I could, I would have no place in 
your heart — ^you who removed my picture from the very 
frame in which I gave it to you and replaced it with an 
obscene portrait of your shameless mistress. 

ADDER — Has Mrs. Hunter told you that also? 

JEANETTE — No ; I have seen it with my own eyes. 

ADDER — When? Not while you were at the reception. 

JEANETTE — (openly) No ; it was the following night — 
Halloween. 

ADDER — (triumphantly) Oh ! ho ! Then it was you — 
our little Virgin Mary — who made the night call on Tem- 
pleton. 

LYON— Jeanette ! 

MRS. LYON— (taking her hand) No. 

ADDER — (scornfully to Jeanette) You clever little hypo- 
crite. You charming little hussy, (then to all) I suppose 
this gilt-edge Lyon family thought they were playing a pretty 
trick when they invited me to their bridge party to-night, 
but I hope they have discovered that their supposedly un- 
informed guests also had a trump up his sleeve. Now, that 
he has exposed his hand, the family can decide the game 
among themselves, while the dummy withdraws, wishing a 
merry good evening to the whole pack. 

(Adder struts from the room, and a few seconds later the 
door of the entrance-hall closes with a violent slam. 
Ralph Lyon stands spell-bound, staring at Jeanette, who 
remains speechless but firm,.) 

LYON — (after a short but awful silence) Well, Miss 
Jeanette, have you nothing to say ? 

MRS. LYON — Speak, Jeanette ; speak. Your mother will 
believe every word. Come ; answer your father. 

JEANETTE — (with emotion) My father? My father? 
You call yourself my father ; do you ? You — ^you who stand 



THE ICE LENS 119 

there, and let these words pass the Hps of such a cad ; you — 
you who allow your daughter to be vilely insulted and 
dragged to this level of shame and indecency — ^you — you 
— and you make not even an attempt to strike down the 
heartless liar — you — ^you call yourself my father. 

LYON — (unmoved) I have listened to your side of the 
story; I must also listen to his. Your behavior of late, 
Jeanette, leads me to believe you are involved in a matter 
which weighs heavily on your mind. Your mother, too, has 
noticed it. Perhaps Mr. Adder has opened our eyes, and it 
remains for you to change the light in which I fear I already 
hold you. 

JEANETTE — You mean you are not only going to sub- 
mit to hearing him, but you are even going to believe him ? 

LYON— And why shouldn't I ? 

JEANETTE — Because your appetites run wanton, be- 
cause you indulge in shameless pleasures, then you are going 
to place me in the same light just because I am your child ? 

LYON — Until you vindicate yourself in some way or 
other, I shall consider you a disgrace to the family. 

JEANETTE— I— a disgrace to the family? I? And 
what have you done, and what are you doing to honor it? 
Your own tongue blabs your disgraceful behavior, and only 
now I see that your face also portrays it. Your tastes con- 
firm it. And yet, dissatisfied with the atmosphere in which 
you have already enveloped our home by lavishing your 
father's money on articles that reek with lust, you scheme, 
through me as a medium, to bring into our midst a son-in- 
law whose deeds are as (She pauses a second or two, and 
then adds explosively:) filthy as your own. 

LYON — Silence! Don't repeat to me again the faults 
which every man enjoys. The world knows all that, and still 
treats him with respect. 

JEANETTE — Yes; men can be lifted from a public 
street, where they lie exhausted and stupefied from over- 



120 THE ICE LENS 

indulgence; and the next day, even those who have seen 
them there, are ready to forgive and forget. But let a single 
irresponsible person gossip falsely about a girl or a woman, 
and the whole world stands up and bellows her disgrace, 

LYON — If Adder's report is false, it remains for you to 
prove it so, and I shall give you a fair chance. You must 
answer all my questions with no help or sympathy from your 
mother. I shall ask her to leave the room. 

MRS. LYON — No ; I must stay with Jeanette. 

LYON — (sternly) Leave the room. I command you. 

(Mrs. Lyon loses her courage, and leaves the room, weep- 
ing. Lyon begins an examination in which Jeanette's 
entire narrative is heartlessly m,isinterpreted to accord 
with the verdict which her father has already drawn up 
in his own depraved mind.) 

LYON — Now, on Halloween, mother was out of town, 
and I went over to Hunter's to play bridge, leaving you here 
alone. Why did you leave the house ? 

JEANETTE — I received a message on the 'phone. 

LYON— From whom? 

JEANETTE— From Jefferson. 

LYON — Your brother ? Where was he ? 

JEANETTE — At the dormitory — at least I think so. 

LYON — What was the message ? 

JEANETTE — He called for help, saying he had been 
drugged in Mr. Adder's room, 

LYON — Most women are clever liars, but those of your 
invention drop from an inexperienced tongue. Do you ex- 
pect your father to believe that ? 

JEANETTE — I could scarcely believe it myself; it did 
not even sound like Jefferson's voice. 

LYON — Have you seen him since ? 

JEANETTE — No, and I think it is queer, too, that he 
hasn't been home to mention it, 

LYON — Not queer at all; the chances are, Jeff knows 



THE ICE LENS 121 

nothing about it. Your story is hard to believe, but go on. 
What did you do? 

JEANETTE — The chauffeur wasn't here, so I cranked 
the engine myself, and ran the car madly up to the dormi- 
tory. 

LYON — Yes; you have better control of the wheels that 
are outside of your head. Continue. 

JEANETTE — The building was in complete darkness, 
but the front door was open, unlocked. I stumbled through 
the dark hall until I came to a door with a light in it. 

LYON — Who was there ? 

JEANETTE — It was Mr. Templeton's room. I told him 
about the message, and we searched Mr. Adder's room to- 
gether, but found no sign of Jefferson. 

LYON — Of course not. And what had Templeton to say ? 

JEANETTE — He said it was probably a Halloween joke. 

LYON — Yes ; he is a little more clever than you are. Are 
you quite sure, my young lady, that the strange voice over 
the 'phone was not — Templeton's? 

JEANETTE — Absurd. Why would he do such a thing? 

LYON — He very likely saw you the night before at the 
reception, took a liking to you — just as everybody does — and 
thought this was a splendid chance to get more intimately 
acquainted. 

JEANETTE — How can you conceive the like ? 

LYON — (in hold conceit) I ? Ha, I have devised schemes 
by far more clever wlien I myself had the same hunch in 
mind. Well, then what happened? 

JEANETTE— We returned to Mr. Templeton's room. 

LYON — Why didn't you come home immediately ? 

JEANETTE — I was too nervous to run the car. He 
asked me to sit down and rest. 

LYON — How long did you stay ? 

JEANETTE — I have no idea; our talk grew so inter- 
esting. 



123 THE ICE LENS 

LYON — Interesting, eh? 

JEANETTE — Yes ; he told me plainly what other men 
have never dared to breathe before me. 
LYON — I can imagine. 

JEANETTE — At times I thought he was bold to do so, 
but I soon realized that his every word was truth, and I 
desired to hear more and more. 

LYON — Yes ; such things are always exciting to the inno- 
cent. 

JEANETTE — A queer feeling came over me as though I 
were being born into a new life; his revelation made me the 
happiest girl alive. I was so happy, I cried — I couldn't help 
but love him for it. 

LYON— You love him? 

JEANETTE — (seriously) Yes ; from that moment my 
heart and soul were his. 

(Jeanette's night visit, in the sense her father sees it, ap- 
pears after all, to a man of his conduct, as an act of 
common — although concealed — occurrence, calling for 
little, if any, serious disapproval. Up to this point, the 
interview has furnished him considerable am,usement, as 
indicated by his sportive m,anner. But when Jeanette 
confesses in all seriousness a real and profound love for 
the m,an he despises, then her father's former compo- 
sure gives way to an animal fury.) 
LYON — This common pauper who hasn't a cent of in- 
heritance to his name, or a drop of respectable blood in his 
veins ! This lunatic who has crossed my path once before 
by inveigling Jefferson into the mission, and now shatters 
my control over you by turning your hollow head with his 
damnable nonsense! 

JEANETTE — It matters little to me what you care to call 
him. I shall love him in spite of all you say or think. 

LYON — I understand now why you have discarded Mr. 
Adder : Not on account of his relation to other women, but 



THE ICE LENS 133 

because he was not more familiar with you. You were too 
ignorant to recognize his great respect for you, but when 
this hypocrite of a preacher lured you into his chamber, and 
initiated you into the very thing from which Adder was try- 
ing to shield your purity — ^you thought that was love. 

JEANETTE — (gasping) You misunderstand me ; you are 
misunderstanding everything. I love this man because he 
has led me from blind existence into real happiness. 

LYON — Ha, I know this real happiness with false hair 
flying about the room. 

JEANETTE — He but playfully removed the puff from 
my hair. 

LYON — (creeping close to her like a beast upon its prey, 
as if trying to hypnotise her into admitting what he believes 
passed between them) That is : He took down your hair ? 

JEANETTE — (gradually becoming hysterical) Don't say 
that; don't, I say. 

LYON — The stocking was next in order. 

JEANETTE — (grasping the arm of the davenport) How 
can you ? How can you ? 

LYON— And then— 

JEANETTE — Stop ; for God's sake, stop. 

(Jeanette sways and then falls upon the davenport, her 
body shaking convulsively with her loud sobbing.) 

LYON — (without mercy) Ah, you fall before me, and 
hide your face. By this action, you confess your guilt ; am 
I right? (There is no answer, only sobs.) Answer me. 
(He seises her roughly by the arm.) Are you this man's 
mistress ? Yes or no ? 

JEANETTE — (rising defiantly before him) To such a 
question I shall never answer. If my father's mind is so 
polluted that he cannot decide for himself as to the decency 
of his own daughter, then he may live in doubt forever. 

LYON — Jeanette, until you are ready to confess to me, I 
do not care to see your lying face ; I do not care to hear your 



134 THE ICE LENS 

lying voice. I disown you. (He points to the street.) 
There's the door. Go ! 

(He ascends the steps, turns the electric-light key at the 

door, and disappears behind the portieres. The room is 

filled with a flood of silver moonlight pouring in through 

the conservatory and the entrance -hall. Jeanette stands 

■motionless until she hears her father close his bedroom 

door angrily. Then she walks to the foot of the steps, 

and faces the dark archway.) 

JEANETTE — I despise you. I loathe you. I do not 

care to be the daughter of so blind and so vile a man, nor 

shall you claim me as such until you open your eyes to the 

truth, and proclaim my innocence with your own lips. I 

shall not live under your roof. I shall not come near you. 

When you are fit to see me, you must seek me, and for you 

I shall wait. I shall wait long perhaps, but not in vain. You 

must come. You will come. 

(She takes her m,other's shawl from, the davenport, and 
throws it over her shoulders. She crosses the floor, and 
pauses for a few m,om,ents in the doorway of the 
entrance-hall where, for an instant, we see the m,oon- 
light playing on her beautiful and innocent face. Then 
she disappears under the cover of night. 
There is a long and restful silence like the calm, after a 
storm,. Then com,es a loud crash of breaking glass in 
the conservatory. A man, half staggering and half 
crawling, feels his way through the palms into the 
living-room. He falls against one of the large statues, 
sending it to the floor in pieces. He himself lies there 
exhausted. 
The noise brings Lyon from, his room. He appears be- 
tween the portieres with a revolver. He fires at the 
crouching form, in the moonlight. His aim proves good, 
and the victim wails, "They have shot me. They have 
shot me.") 



THE ICE LENS 135 

LYON — My God ! is it you, Jefferson ? 

JEFFERSON— Yes ; it's Jefferson. 

LYON — (helping him to the davenport) And I have shot 
you? 

JEFFERSON— No ; you didn't do it, Dad. You didn't 
do it. They did it. 

LYON— Who? 

JEFFERSON — The mocking fiends — there they are — see 
them — there — ^all standing in a row — pointing at me — 
laughing at me — look at their grinning faces. But they've 
got me now — they've got me now — they chased me every- 
where — when I ran home, they followed me — I thought I 
was safe, but they shot me after I got in — they did it — I 
know they did — you didn't do it. Dad — ^they did it. (He 
grasps his father's hand.) You're all right. Dad — ^you're all 
right — it's the fiends that do all the evil. 

LYON— The boy is mad. 

(Mrs. Lyon enters greatly excited.) 

MRS. LYON — What is wrong, Ralph? What is wrong? 

LYON — Go to Jeanette's room, and tell her to come down 
at once. Telephone for the doctor immediately. 

(She leaves.) 

JEFFERSON— Was that mother? 

LYON— Yes. 

JEFFERSON — (serenely) Mother is an angel. Dad. 
Dear darling Mother — and now they have shot me, and I 
can't go with her on the farm — on dear Mother's farm — ^the 
fiends couldn't have followed me there ; could they. Dad ? 

LYON — How long have you been this way, Jeff? 

JEFFERSON — They forced me to drink brandy — the 
fiends — ^that was the beginning — I thought they were drug- 
ging me, and I called for help over the telephone — I called 
to Jeanette. 

LYON — My God ! The girl is innocent ! 

JEFFERSON — That was a long time ago — that was the 



126 THE ICE LENS 

start, Dad, and I couldn't get enough — ^couldn't get enough 
— it was drink, drink, drink — I was ashamed to come home 
— ashamed — ashamed. 

MRS. LYON — (entering) It is Jefferson I hear. 

LYON — Yes ; it is Jefferson, and he is dying from drink. 

MRS. LYON— Dying? 

LYON — Yes ; don't turn on the Hghts — I cannot bear to 
look him in the face. 

JEFFERSON — Let me see Mother ; let me hold her hand. 

MRS. LYON — (on her knees before the davenport) Poor 
Jefferson — my boy. 

JEFFERSON — Away, you filthy woman. You and your 
kind are the cause of all this. 

LYON— O God! 

JEFFERSON — It was for you they tried to make me lie 
to Jeanette — you are Adder's mistress. Away, vulgar pros- 
titute ! 

MRS. LYON— Jefferson ! Jefferson ! 

LYON — He has lost his mind. (He wrings his hands.) 
Where is Jeanette ? Why doesn't she come ? 

MRS. LYON — Her room is dark and vacant. I could 
find her nowhere. 

LYON — You mean she has left the house? O God! 
What have I done? Lost both my children — I have driven 
out my daughter, and have shot my own son. (He walks to 
the conservatory and hack.) 

MRS. LYON— Ralph ! You— yon shot him ? 

LYON — I mistook him for a burglar, and I fired. 

MRS. LYON — Oh, Jefferson, my poor boy ! 

LYON — (standing behind the davenport) Slain by his 
father's hand. (He covers his face, and moans.) 

JEFFERSON — (trying to rise) No, no, I tell you you're 
all right. Dad. They did it — the grinning apes — why don't 
you chase them out — ^they are making fun of me, and laugh- 
ing at my pain (He groans aloud.) — ^don't let them see me 



THE ICE LENS 127 

•die — ^put them out, Dad — for God's sake, put them out — 
they have always been in the house — ^they were after you, 
Dad, but they shot me instead — I am dying for you, Dad — 
thank God, I have saved you — I have saved you. 

(After a few moments of intense agony, Jefiferson passes 

away in his mother's arms. Lyon, as if transformed to 

stone, stands in silence behind the davenport gazing off 

into empty space. A dim light steals across his face, 

causing it to stand out in contrast with the surrounding 

darkness. Nothing is heard except the deep sobs of the 

mother, who rests her head upon the lifeless body of 

her son. After a while, she slowly lifts her face toward 

her husband.) 

MRS. LYON — He is dead, Ralph, — ^our little missionary. 

LYON — (clasping her hand over the body of their dead 

jon) Yes, Martha; dead, but he has performed the mission 

assigned him by God — he has converted his father's soul. 

(The light on Ralph Lyon's face grows gradually brighter. 

His countenance, once symbolic of evil and defilement, 

is now radiant with Truth.) 



ACT IV 

(The lens unmelted.) 



ACT IV 

The scene shows a corner and two walls of a room tn a 
small cottage. The most noticeable feature of the room 
is an extraordinarily large window in the right and 
longer wall — so large in fact that we imagine the entire 
wall has been cut away to give the inmates a complete 
panoramic view of the surrounding country, which is 
tem^porarily hidden by the heavy fog preceding the dawn 
of an early Spring morning. The window is open, and 
the low sill is covered with potted plants bearing numer- 
ous colored blossoms. Below the sill there is a long 
windozv-seat with bright pillows; to the left are shelves 
filled with books. These shelves extend to the corner 
and beyond to a door in the left and shorter zvall; a few 
busts and some stone jars filled zvith zvild flowers adorn 
the tops of them. A small table stands against the wall 
on the other side of the door. A flickering candle on 
this table causes shadows of the busts on the wall and 
ceiling. A wicker cot stands near to the table but not 
against the wall; it has been drawn out toward the 
center of the floor. There are also two or three large 
wicker chairs. The cover on the cot, the curtain on the 
door, and the cushions on the chairs and zmndow-seat 
are all made from, the same material, neatly and simply 
stenciled. The rugs on the floor harmonise with these 
both in color and design. Framed prints of classical 
paintings, including the Mona Lisa, hang on the wall 
above the table. There is another door in the right wall; 
it opens into a garden. The Ninety-first Psalm hangs 
between this door and the zvindow. A large desk and 
a chair stand directly before the zvindow. An oil-lamp 
is burning on the desk. The room seems small and 



132 THE ICE LENS 

modestly furnished when compared to the elaborate 
massiveness of the interior scene shown in the preceding 
Act, but the spirit of peace and happiness hovers over 
all. 

Templeton is seated at the desk just as we met him in the 
First Act. He wears soft gray trousers and a dark blue 
velvet jacket. Jeanette, in a sim^ple white dress and 
white canvas shoes, lies sleeping on the cot. 

After a while, he rises from the desk, walks toward the 
cot, and gazes in true admiration on her beautiful face. 
She wakes suddenly, and he sits down beside her, taking 
her hand. 

JEANETTE — I just had a very queer dream: it seemed 
there was a knock at the door, and when I answered it I 
found a snake curled up on the mat. Usually I fear them, 
but this one seemed harmless, tramped, torn, crushed, almost 
lifeless, and, in spite of the repulsion I once felt for it, I 
pitied the poor creature ; I refreshed it with cool water ; it 
opened its eyes and licked my hand ; the poison must have 
been removed, because I feared it not. 

(There is a feeble rap on the door. Jeanette rises, and 
Templeton crosses the room, to answer it. Adder enters, 
but we do not recognise him, owing to a pitiful change 
in his appearance: his eyes have lost their fire; his face 
is pale; his cheeks are hollow. He is no longer the pic- 
ture of health that once pleased our eyes, but his deface- 
ment appears more reparable than the hardened features 
we first saw in Ralph Lyon. Both men have been 
swamped in evil, but Adder, fortunately, has been res- 
cued before the stain from, the mire has permeated his 
entire being.) 
ADDER — (after a short silence) May one ask for guid- 
ance here? 

TEMPLETON— We are only too glad to help the 



THE ICE LENS 133 

passer-by. We have purposely located our dwelling on an 
elevation so that any wanderer who has lost his way in the 
valley below may quickly find us if he will only look upward. 
(He carries a chair forward.) Sit down, my friend; you 
are tired. 

JEANETTE — And thirsty too. I shall draw some fresh 
water. 

(She crosses the floor before Adder, and leaves by the 

door through which he entered. He follows her with 

his eyes, and after she disappears he sinks into the chair 

zvith a painful sigh.) 

ADDER — Yes ; I am both tired and thirsty — tired of the 

worthless life I have been leading, thirsty for a new one, 

thirsty for all that is right and good, thirsty for — 

(Jeanette returns with a stone cup filled with water. She 

offers it to him. He drinks, and returns the vessel.) 
Thank you; thank you very much. This is the first real 
kindness that has been shown me in a long while; it is the 
act, more than the cool water, which refreshes my burning 
soul. Would that I could express my gratitude by kissing 
your kindly hand. (Jeanette non-reluctantly extends her 
hand. Adder reaches for it, but draws back immediately.) 
No, no. To a woman of her purity, my touch would be as 
repulsive as the sting of a serpent. I cannot. I cannot. 
(He covers his face with his hands. Templeton signals to 
Jeanette to leave the room. She carries the cup to the 
table, takes up the candle, and disappears behind the 
curtain on the door. Templeton takes his position be- 
hind Adder's chair, and pats him amicably on the 
shoulder.) 
TEMPLETON — Come, come; brace up. I realize your 
position. 

ADDER — Then you recognize me? 

TEMPLETON — As one in many who have gone 
astray. 



134 THE ICE LENS 

ADDER — But do you not recall that I was once your 
neighbor ? 

TEMPLETON— We are all neighbors. We are the peo~ 
pie of a vast neighborhood working toward ultimate g'ood. 
Even our sinners contribute toward this end in that we all 
profit by their reckless mistakes. Indeed, our common prog- 
ress is retarded not by the existing wrongs we are trying to 
rectify, but by the ingratitude, the ridicule, the opposition 
and the slander which are constantly being thrown across 
the path our benefactors are clearing. 

ADDER — I regret deeply all I have said about you. I 
know you must hate me for it. 

TEMPLETON— Why should I hate you? What good 
would that do ? What you said was false, and it is only the 
truth that hurts. You have not harmed me, my dear friend ; 
you have injured only yourself, and what you need is my 
sympathy and not my contempt. 

ADDER — How kind and considerate you are ! 

TEMPLETON — It is but the pleasure as well as the duty 
of a Christian to be so. It is only by helping others that we 
advance ourselves ; scorning them simply leads to our own 
misery. 

ADDER — There is no better example than myself to illus- 
trate the truth of your statement. I recall a classmate of 
mine — 'a poor ragged devil, who spent all four years of his 
college life facing and overcoming obstacles ; he fired fur- 
naces to pay the rent for his cold attic room ; he waited on 
tables to earn his food ; he kept books for a tailor to get 
what few cast-ofT clothes he wore. Little time had he to 
himself, but in that time he fought and toiled. He had no 
friends, no pleasure, not even health ; he had nothing — 
nothing but ambition. I used to laugh at this man — laugh at 
his shabby appearance. I avoided his company, and refused 
to recognize him on the street. What little I said of him 
behind his back was unkind and false. But now he, who 



THE ICE LENS 135 

seemed cursed both by fate and by myself, he has made 
good, while I, who had ever3rthing — ^^health, time, money, 
ability — have squandered all and am reduced to a miserable, 
worthless, self-made good-for-nothing. 

TEMPLETON — The road to ruin is wide and smooth, 
but the narrow path to success is full of obstacles. Your 
classmate has met them one and all; they retarded but did 
not prevent his progress. Our strength comes mainly 
through our suffering, and his experience in overcoming one 
obstacle armed him with a new and stronger determination 
to conquer the others — including the contempt which you 
yourself exercised over him. 

ADDER — If I had only helped him, then I could look back 
to at least one good unselfish deed. But no ; I cared only 
for my own happiness and gave no thought to the wretched 
condition of others. I was worse than a selfish fool ! I was 
a greedy glutton taking more than my fill of beastly pleas- 
ures, and, added to all, I was an infernal liar. I tried to win 
deceptively the love of an innocent girl, and, when she justly 
cast me off, I insulted her with accusations as false as they 
were vile. 

TEMPLETON— You refer to— 

ADDER — Please don't breathe her name. I deny my 
ears the pleasure of hearing it; I forbid my lips the honor 
to speak it. But I am repaid ; God knows I am well repaid 
for it all. My own roommate reports my dishonesty to the 
faculty, and heralds to the public my relations with a harlot. 
My university expels me ; my body suffers incessant torture 
from the fearful pain of unsightly diseases ; my friends no 
longer know me ; and worst of all — my own mother, who has 
never drawn me to her heart, disowns me. God help me to 
forget the man she calls her husband ; I curse every dollar 
he has thrust into my reckless hand ; I no longer care to own 
his name. I long to start anew, for, although I have ren- 
dered myself unfit for a husband and a father, I can still 



136 THE ICE LENS 

be a man — a man earning a deserved existence by his own 
honest labor. But how — how shall I do it ? Look at me ; 
my God ! look at me ! 

TEMPLETON — However black the sky may seem, in 
time the sun will shine; however wicked our souls appear, 
if we will but wash away the scum, we shall find good hid- 
den beneath it. (The faint outlines of distant mountain 
peaks appear in the fog.) 

ADDER — Is there in me a single virtue? 

TEMPLETON — There is at least one seed of it in every 
man, and that seed is indestructible : place him where you 
will, — in the midst of the blackest and deadliest evil, — ^that 
seed never loses its latent power. It may seem lost forever, 
but patience and hope will find it, and, although trampled 
and crushed, it will sprout and blossom if we warm it and 
nourish it with sunshine and love. 

ADDER — And where must that seed be planted ? 

TEMPLETON — In fresh sweet soil. (He points out the 
open ivindotv.) Yonder on the hillside, the laborers have 
commenced excavations for the New Church of God. Take 
up your pick and shovel, and help with its foundation. 

ADDER — Must I begin so low? 

TEMPLETON— We should all begin at the bottom, and 
then rise. Some of us rise rapidly ; others slowly ; and some 
are content to remain there. But even their service is essen- 
tial, for the whole edifice rests on the foundation which is 
the product of their labor, and God rewards them with the 
same salvation he grants to the velvet-robed minister who 
has climbed to the top of the pulpit. 

ADDER — What chance have I to rise? Fingers will 
point ; eyes will glare ; everybody will crush me with their 
hatred and their sinister thoughts. 

TEMPLETON — You misjudge the world. Prove to 
them first that you are worthy of remission. Work hard and 
move onward. Each advancing step toward the truth, how- 



THE ICE LENS 137 

ever small, will stand out all the more brilliantly in contrast 
with the dark background which you have set up behind 
you. Your new life gradually begins to glow, then to shine, 
then to sparkle, and finally becomes so dazzling that the 
background is no longer visible — it dissolves — it fades. (The 
fog is gradually clearing; the mountains become more and 
more distinct.) 

ADDER — (rising) I thank you for every word you have 
told me. They have been words of truth and encourage- 
ment. I shall follow your counsel, and to-morrow — no, to- 
day — I shall start in the ditch, and dig, and dig, and dig. 

TEMPLETON — (placing his hands on Adder's shoul- 
ders, and looking deeply into his eyes) You are setting a 
nobble example for the world : you are starting across that 
bridge which leads from mere existence to service, from 
degeneration to manhood. Your hatred for vice will be all 
the more bitter because you yourself were once a victim, and 
have now reformed. The world needs men like you, and 
God knows there are enough eligible candidates. Let it be 
your msision and my mission to save them. From this 
moment let us be brothers working for the same cause. Let us 
clasp hands in eternal friendship and everlasting fraternity. 

ADDER (clasping Templeton's hand) Fraternity ! Never, 
until now, have I known the true meaning of the word. 

(Jeanette enters through the curtained door.) 

TEMPLETON — And here stands another loving soul to 
help us. 

JEANETTE — (holding out her hand to Adder) And to 
wish you infinite success. 

ADDER — Thank you. Thank you. I should love to 
touch your hand, sweet lady, but God forbids it, 

(Adder starts to walk toward the door, hut Tempi eton 
arrests him by placing his hand on his shoulder.) 

TEMPLETON — Wait. God has already cleansed you. 
Fear not to take the guiding hand He offers. 



138 THE ICE LENS 

(Adder turns about, walks tozvard Jeanette, falls on one 
knee, and, seizing her extended hand, he covers it with 
kisses. Then he rises, takes his hat, covers his face 
with his arm, and, sobbing aloud like a child, he feels his 
way slowly out of the room. Templeton and Jeanette 
stand motionless until the sobbing dies away in the dis- 
tance. A delicate pink glow appears in the sky.) 
TEMPLETON — He cries because he is happy. He has 
entered the childhood of a new life, and childhood is the 
happiest period of all : it is the beginning — ^the dawn — ^the 
time when there is no past — the time when the future looks 
brightest — ^the time when our thoughts are clean and pure. 
(He extinguishes the lam,p, and watches the changing color 
of the heavens.) 

JEANETTE— He has found the truth. To him it will be 
as beautiful as the flowers which the children have culled in 
the meadows. 

(Tivo children rush in through the open door: one, a girl; 
the other, a very small boy — a mere baby in "rompers." 
They are neatly dressed in clean bright clothes, and 
carry large bunches of daisies in their arms. Templeton 
and Jeanette join them in singing and dancing around 
the flowers which they have scattered on the floor in the 
center of the room.) 
GIRL — (to Jeanette) We came to turn you into a fairy. 
JEANETTE — How jolly! and what would you have 
me do? 

GIRL — Sit right here on the floor, and take down your 
hair. (Jeanette obeys, letting her hair fall gracefully over 
her shoulders.) Now, Brother, you must sit down also. 

TEMPLETON — (squatting on the floor and taking the 
baby boy on his knee) Brother and I will be two little 
brownies sitting on a log and peeping and smiling. 

GIRL — You're too big for a brownie; let Brother be the 
brownie, and you be the log. 



THE ICE LENS 139 

TEMPLETON— Good idea ! That is much better. (He 
lies down on his back, and the girl places the little boy astride 
his stomach.) 

GIRL — There; that's fine. You make such a good log, 
and you're so willing about it too. 

TEMPLETON — Does your father ever play log for you? 

GIRL — (standing behind Jeanette and arranging her hair) 
Yes ; he does almost everything for us now. Mother is so 
glad he is happy again. He used to be so cranky because he 
had no money. Sometimes I thought he was going to eat 
both Brother and me with one bite — ^but that wouldn't have 
made him feel any better ; would it ? Brother alone, without 
me, would have felt heavy on his tummy. 

TEMPLETON — (who is in a position to judge) I should 
say so. 

GIRL — But one night he came home all in smiles. He 
told Mother that money wasn't everything, and that we were 
going to be just as happy without it; and he came over to 
my bed, and woke me up, and tickled me, and said, "Laugh, 
Mary ; laugh !" and, sleepy as I was, I laughed so loud that 
I woke Brother up, and Father took us both in his arms, 
and kissed us all over. And then he went into Mother's 
room, and I heard him say : "Thank God ! we've got a home 
that rings wfth children's laughter." 

(Metcalf rushes into the room,, happy and smiling. He 
wears a very respectable-looking suit and a new strazv 
hat with a rather brilliant band.) 

METCALF — Good morning, everybody. 

TEMPLETON — (rising to a sitting posture, and taking 
Brother on his lap) Good morning; you are just in time to 
see the fairy appear. Come sit down, and join us. 

GIRL — Yes ; there ought to be a grasshopper looking on 
too, or you might be a bullfrog, or even a nice big fat cater- 
pillar. 

JEANETTE — (who has just finished making a zvreafh 



140 THE ICE LENS 

from the daisies) Why didn't you bring Mrs. Metcalf along? 
She might have served for a butterfly. 

METCALF — (taking his seat on the floor among the 
others) I left her at home taking a much-needed rest — we 
have a maid now you know. 

GIRL — (placing the wreath on Jeanette's head, and 
fastening it to her hair with other daisies) And Mother gets 
time to tell us such nice stories. 

METCALF — Yes, and time to read them too ; we take 
The Ladies' Home Journal now — a dollar and a half per 
year. After dinner these days, Kate takes that instead of 
the dishcloth. 

JEANETTE — We were so glad to hear your salary was 
increased. , 

METCALF — And it's a happy family we are; isn't it. 
Brother? (He relieves Templeton hy taking the hoy in his 
own arw^.) We all have new souls — I bought four pairs of 
shoes last week. 

GIRL — You ought to see mine. They are too cute for 
words — white ones with little blue bows. And look at 
Brother's ! He was allowed to wear his because Father car- 
ried him most of the way. 

JEANETTE — Come over to me. Brother, and let me see 
them. (The boy tottles across the floor, and Jeanette catches 
him. in her arms.) 

GIRL — But our shoes aren't in it with Mother's Easter 
bonnet. 

METCALF — Her first hat in five years. Kate always had 
to trim her own hats ; last Easter she used chicken feathers. 
(Laughter.) It may sound queer, but it looked almost as 
swell as these Parisian roof-gardens with their imported 
cocktails. Kate has some head — she has a certain knack of 
making something out of almost nothing. Would you be- 
lieve that Mary's dress, there, was made out of our front- 
room curtain, and Brother's belt is an old tie of mine. Kate 



THE ICE LENS 141 

is a real mother — she does everything she can for my boy 
and girl, and that's why I sacrificed a great part of last 
month's pay to get her that new bonnet with the blue plumes 
and forget-me-nots. 

TEMPLETON — Have you something to harmonize 
with it? 

METCALF — (holding up his straw hat with the bright 
blue band) Yes. 

TEMPLETON — You must look charming when you go 
out walking together. 

METCALF — Yes; we hope to be taken into society by 
next fall. Kate has already had an invitation to a church 
social ; she's going to furnish the doughnuts. 

TEMPLETON— I am glad to find you looking at the 
brighter side of life. 

METCALF — Since I have paid back all that money I 
borrowed for my education I am feeling happy as a lark. 

JEANETTE — And you look like one too in all your new 
plumage. 

METCALF — It is remarkable what clothes will do: just 
outside the door I met one of my students, and he actually 
recognized me. 

TEMPLETON — There comes a time in every man's life 
when he realizes the truth in the principle of equality. The 
student you have mentioned has paid for his folly. 

METCALF — If I had owned these clothes sooner, I be- 
lieve I could have done that fellow more good ; I might have 
helped in part toward avoiding his ruin. 
JEANETTE— In what way, Mr. Metcalf ? 
METCALF — The more respectable a teacher appears, the 
more he impresses a student with his knowledge. How can 
we expect these fashionable youths to be inspired by a sour- 
faced pedagogue in a worm-eaten suit and a soup-stained 
necktie even though he know forward and backward the 
cause of every natural phenomenon? These boys get the 



142 THE ICE LENS 

idea that serious study must invariably result in deteriora- 
tion, and that deep thinking is but the mania of a freak. 
There are some over-paid geniuses whose hair goes to seed 
and whose trousers bag at the knee on account of their 
inexcusable recklessness, but there are many other more 
evenly balanced teachers, with pride as well as sense, whose 
features have become haggard and whose clothes have grown 
shiny from ill-paid labor and unavoidable parsimony. Over 
half the money donated to educational institutions is mis- 
used ; stately recitation halls and stately laboratories will 
never serve in turning the head of youth from folly to study 
unless we place (He rises, and strikes a stately pose.) stately 
teachers within them. 

JEANETTE— Bravo ! 

METCALF — I believe the modern notion of a university 
is radically wrong, and I think my opinion is confirmed by 
the poor results we obtain. The whole system should 
undergo a revolution : less fuss over the hobbies of genius, 
and more attention to the enlightenment of the masses. Re- ' 
search in unknown fields of learning may demand the sacri- 
fice of teaching ability on the part of the investigator, but it 
should not usurp the positions and the salaries wliich are 
connected with the more rudimentary instruction of our 
children. Bring out the teachers — the real teachers ; encour- 
age more and better men in the teaching profession ; pay 
them enough so they can live respectably and win the admira- 
tion of their students. Then our sons will get an education 
instead of a degree, and our universities will turn out learned 
and moral men instead of tinkling cymbals and profligates. 

JEANETTE — When will your ideas go into effect? 

METCALF — When Brother here is ready for college. 

JEANETTE — And where will you send him ? 

METCALF — To that university which is going to take 
the first step in the right direction. Stand up. Brother, and 
tell us wliat you're going to be when you grow up. 



THE ICE LENS 143 

BROTHER — (standing upright like the little sprout 
which develops into a mighty oak) A man. 

METCALF— What kind of a man ? 

BROTHER— A good man. 

METCALF— What else? 

BROTHER— A smart man. 

METCALF— Is that all? 

BROTHER— A YALE man, Daddy. 

(Metcalf lifts his little son to his shoulder, and takes the 
girl by the hand.) 

METCALF — Come along, Kiddies ; we must go home to 
Mother, (to Jeanette) This wasn't intended for a formal 
call. We were out for a morning climb to see the sunrise, 
and just dropped in. The next time, I shall bring Kate 
along with her new bonnet. 

(The three of them skip out the door singing their ''Good 
byes." Templeton rises and walks to the window, 
where he waves his handkerchief . Jeanette remains 
seated on the floor among the field flowers.) 

JEANETTE — What a happy family they are ! 

TEMPLETON — It does my heart good to see them. To 
work for the happiness of others — ^that is my mission. 

JEANETTE — You have accomplished it, John ; why can't 
you rest and be satisfied? 

TEMPLETON — When a man is satisfied with what he 
has done, and cares to do no more, he has reached his cul- 
minating point, and is of no more service to the world in 
which he lives. 

JEANETTE — Yes, John, but surely you have earned 
your laurel by this time. 

TEMPLETON— The laurel wreath that comes with 
trivial labor soon withers and dies, but the one which is the 
reward for perpetual service to God remains forever green. 
(He gazes in the direction of the distant m>ountain peaks.) 

JEANETTE — But your health and your life? 



144 THE ICE LENS 

TEMPLETON— I shall leave that to Him, Jeanette. (He 
comes forward with a chair, and sits before her so that he 
himself faces the open window.) I lost my parents before I 
knew what a father or a mother meant. There was only God 
to watch over me, and why should he not continue to do so. 
He has always been my only friend. My principles have 
not conformed with those of the world, and consequently it 
turned its back upon me. But the fact that I was not loved 
only stren^hened by desire to love, and the fact that I found 
the world cold instilled in me a deep longing to warm it. 
God favored me with both the opportunity and the reward : 
I was placed among men who were sorely in need of guid- 
ance, and, while helping God to reform them, He sent you 
to assist me — you were the sunshine that brightened my 
secluded life. 

JEANETTE — (rising from her nest of flowers, remaining 
on her knees and placing her arms about his neck) I am so 
glad, John ; so glad. 

TEMPLETON — (holding her head in his hands) You, 
Jeanette, are that little fairy who turns my work into play 
and changes my very fatigue into animation. You have 
brought the light to me ; I have brought light to you ; both of 
us must continue to bring it to others. We have reached the 
mountain top, but we must climb still higher that we may 
see farther and find those who are lost in the dark valley 
below us. You ask me to rest, but I cannot ; I must climb — 
climb and take you with me. I am not content to see your 
head wreathed in daisies ; they were culled in the lowlands ; 
they will soon wilt and fade. But high up on the Alpine 
summits grows the edelweiss, which is reached only with the 
expenditure of great eflfort and even at the risk of life, but, 
once obtained, it remains fresh and wholesome eternally. 
Look, Jeanette! See the towering peaks around us — The 
Thrones of God! (He points out the open window. She 
turns her head, and gases zvistfully across the valley.) On 



THE ICE LENS 145 

them the air is still purer ; the sunshine, even brighter ; the 
edelweiss, more genuine. There must we climb, higher and 
higher, to gather the blossoms for your crown. And after 
we reach the highest summit, we shall climb still higher: 
Heaven is the ultimate goal. And there we shall gather the 
stars. The stars, Jeanette, shall finally encircle your brow. 

JEANETTE — It is wonderful, John; all so wonderful. 
And I am so happy that God has sent me as a companion to 
re-animate you for the lofty task in which you serve Him. 

TEMPLETON — (drawing her tenderly to his bosom) I 
am so grateful that you are able to understand me, Jeanette. 

JEANETTE — It would be selfish to think you belonged 
to me alone, to think that all your love must be mine. You 
appear more noble to me when you share it with others. 
But I, John, I can love no one but you ; all the sunshine my 
heart and soul can bring is for you alone. 

TEMPLETON — But humanity needs your love also, 
Jeanette. There are times when mine cannot replace it. 
Even now I can hear a soul crying out to you for help ; I 
can see outstretched arms pleading for your mercy. 

JEANETTE — (gradually leaving his arms, and sinking 
to the floor) My father. My cruel, heartless father. I can 
never return to him. Never. I vowed that he must come 
to me. 

TEMPLETON — And when you made that vow you were 
out of reason just as much as your father was when he dis- 
owned you. 

JEANETTE — No, John ; what I felt was right and truth 
— what he felt was false. 

TEMPLETON — It is for that very reason that you 
should overlook it. Your father was not himself; he was 
the victim of evil. He is not entirely to blame. 

JEANETTE — How can you take his part when he ac- 
cused us so fearfully? Oh! why have you recalled it? I 
see him now attacking me with every tooth and nail. I shall 



146 THE ICE LENS 

never be able to forget it. I can never do anything but hate 
him, hate him, hate him. 

TEMPLETON — You should hate evil, Jeanette, and hate 
it intensely, but do not hate the unfortunate ones who lie 
strangling under its grip. Rather then condemn man, let us 
better the conditions under Which he lives. In the first 
place: Who were your father's parents? Wealthy people 
so thirsty for social prestige that they could give their own 
child no attention. He never had a true mother's love; he 
never had a righteous father's counsel. In fact, he was sent 
away among strangers with nothing but a heavy purse. He 
went to school, to college. There he acquired both habits 
and friends — Alas ! we call them friends — these "good fel- 
lows" who not only boast of their own low deeds, but lead 
us arm in arm to ill fame and ruin. (Jeanette begins to 
show more and more interest.) His university — ^the Alma 
Mater under whose responsibility his uprightness was shifted 
— she likewise was too thirsty for showy reputation to take 
interest in her own son. In her frenzied efforts to expand 
and to claim the glory of new discoveries and achievements, 
she ignored his moral education and conferred upon him a 
degree for the examinations which he passed with his tutor's 
brain. His ignorant parents applauded his victory, and 
rewarded him with a fortune to last the rest of his days. 
With a future provided for, he never knew the sweetness 
of labor, but continued the fatal pleasures of his youth. 
Without a conscience to guide him, and without a single 
hand to help him, he sank into the quagmire of evil — lower, 
lower, lower. (With these words, she gradually lowers her 
head on his knee and begins to sob.) Now, Jeanette, you 
understand why I said he was not entirely to blame. Of 
course he has sinned, but you and I both know that he has 
been punished and suffers. But remember, his sins are indi- 
rectly the cause of your happiness, which seems all the 
brighter in contrast with his sorrow. Is it not only human, 



THE ICE LENS 147 

Jeanette, that those who are benefited by the mistakes of 
others should, if not share, at least do all they can to relieve 
the pang of the transgressor rather than increase it by spurn- 
ing him? Your father now realizes his error, and he is 
working hard to reach you and admit it. This very moment 
he is climbing the mountain side — ^the mountain of truth and 
light. Are you going to help or hinder him? 

JEANETTE — (rising, and drying her tears) I shall go 
and help him, John ; help him all I can. I should have done 
it long ago. Poor unfortunate father ! 

TEMPLETON — (rising, and taking her in his arms) It 
is the glorious spirit of God within you. 

(The strains of Mendelssohn's "Spring Song" set the air 
in rapturous vibration; the flowers on the window-sill 
nod happily as a fragrant breeze blows over them. 
Jeanette flutters out through the open door like a bird. 
Templeton returns to his desk, and writes. 
The distant mountain peaks seem nearer than before. The 
first quivering ray of the rising sun escapes from behind 
the eastern range, and falls upon the neighboring sum- 
mits. They sparkle like diadems suspended in the 
heavens, reflecting a flood of golden light symbolic of 
the exultation of God.) 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper pro( 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnolog 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERV 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 

(-70A^ 77Q-P111 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




012 404 698 1 



